


Lost Soul

by OmniGamer



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Headcanon, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniGamer/pseuds/OmniGamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing unusual about monster hunting, well at least for the witcher, Geralt. Little does he know that it will lead to a discovery long held secret, one that he wishes he left buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monster Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of 3 and its DLC so it may contain spoilers, you have been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> _"Ouw se on coq e coq la se rwa an le pil fimie ay. Shen ggonia monerie, ara scdebi. Man amaran nai, Nir sauyn fala fastama azdahzan."_  
>   
>  _"You are primitive. You think you've defeated me but you are wrong. I cannot be killed, I will be back."_

A white-haired man stood alone, panting slightly in the oppressive dark. He wiped his silver blade free of the sticky black blood and sheathed it next to the steel sword on his back. The witcher’s Cat potion, taken earlier in anticipation of the cave’s gloom, made his surroundings appear in a muted monochrome. His golden eyes swept over the remains of the bat-like Katakan unhindered.

He knew the alderman would want some sort of proof of the monster’s demise. They always did.  _The head._ He thought grimly to himself. With it, there could be no denying the beast was dead. Geralt removed his hunting knife and set to work on the corpse, scavenging fangs, saliva, and the vampiric beast’s rarer mutagens.

****

Almost finished the grisly work, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He continued cutting and hacking away at bone and sinew, congealing blood pooling in a black tarry mess around his knees. He coughed, the smell nearly unbearable, but he knew it was only a matter of seconds now. With a rip the head was free, the creature’s impressive maw hanging ajar displaying the razor fangs within.

Rising to his feet, he turned towards the cave’s mouth but stopped when a metallic glint caught his eye. Wedged in the esophagus of the decapitated torso was a small ball no larger than Geralt’s own eye. He bent over and plucked the object from the Katakan’s throat. The silver wolf’s head medallion vibrated softly against his chest as he rolled the line-etched bauble between his fingers.  _Some sort of magic?_

If Geralt had still been on speaking terms with the raven-haired sorceress, Yennefer, he would have asked her for any wisdom pertaining to the small sphere he held; but as it were and always was when they grew apart, the witcher would have to rely on the knowledge of the next sorcerer or sorceress that he happened across. He sighed and pocketed the trinket in a small soft-leather pouch on his belt before walking to the exit.

The evening breeze greeted the witcher as he exited the cavern, lessening the cloying stench of gore that clung to him.

A short whistle summoned his horse from the nearby bushes. The bay nickered as it approached, eyeing the gruesome head Geralt carried. Using some rope from the horse’s saddle bag, Geralt slung the Katakan’s head across the horse’s flank and attached it firmly. He gave the rope one last tug and, satisfied that the head was secure, swung up into the dark brown saddle.

****

The woods remained quiet on their way back to the village, save for the rustling leaves and the occasional cricket. The wolves that would otherwise attack, shied from his approach, hesitant of the smell that wafted from both the witcher and his horse.

They arrived at the village’s edge as the moon was nearing its zenith. The world had almost completely returned to a mixture of dark blues and greens as the last of the potion cleared his system. “Hold, Roach!” Geralt called, pulling back on the reins. The mare obeyed, content to munch the dewy grass surrounding the village.

His boots hit the dry dirt of the road and he moved to his horse’s flank. After untangling the monster’s head, Geralt headed towards the village’s central square.

Nearby a grey tortoiseshell cat stretched and watched the witcher from atop a fence post, scampering away with the approach of his crunching footsteps. Typical of these villages, it appeared empty. Its residents were all safe and snug in their beds, blissfully unaware of the monsters that lurked beyond their wooden walls.

Smoke lazily floated from chimney stacks in the midsummer’s night air, and a goose slept near a doorway with its long neck tucked under a white wing.

It wasn’t hard to find the alderman’s home, Geralt only had to look for the largest log-constructed building. The witcher rapped hard on the door, caring little about disturbing the stout man sleeping soundly inside.

“Ooooph… for gods’ sake who is it at this ungodly hour.” The voice may have been no more than a mumble but the witcher made it out well enough with his sharp hearing. Geralt knocked again, this time shaking dirt loose from the thatch-roofed dwelling. “Coming, coming.” Came the voice again. The alderman finally opened the door with the foggy haze of sleep still evident on his aged features. A look a frustration turned immediately to a false smile the witcher was so often faced with. “Ah, Witcher…”

“I’ve solved your monster problem.” Geralt interrupted, holding the door open with his free hand should the alderman try to shut it on him.

Catching a whiff of the smell that clung to Geralt, the alderman’s nose wrinkled, making it harder for the man to keep up his friendly facade. “Well, yes. Do come back in the morning and…”

The witcher tossed the Katakan’s head at the little man’s feet. Droplets of the pungent black blood splattered along the hem of the alderman’s nightgown. “I would rather we finish our business now, lest my  _evidence_ go up in smoke come sunrise.”

Geralt knew that the head would last until sunrise and easily into the next - despite the superstitions of the common folk about the vampiric species. His urgency stemmed instead from his current lack of sleep and increasingly tightening stomach. He was still a good few days' ride from the next inn and, as he found, the nearby villages had been less than forthcoming with the idea of trading with the witcher.  _Even for a loaf of bread_. Any pleasantry he possessed was quickly drying up, and Geralt had little to spare in the first place.

The witcher purposefully narrowed his pupils to amplify their unnerving cat-like appearance.

The alderman’s smile quivered as he struggled internally. His means of escape from the witcher - namely slamming the door - was gone as Geralt held it firmly open. “And I-I would be assuming that you expect your payment now then?” He squeaked, his eyes darting from door to witcher.  

The witcher followed the alderman's gaze to his arm on the door and smiled wickedly at the coward's transparency. “You would be assuming right.”

With whatever remaining dignity the man possessed, the alderman used it to recompose himself. “Very well. I’ll go fetch your payment.” Geralt crossed his arms and leaned in the doorframe, watching as the man scampered deeper inside.

The alderman glanced once over his shoulder in a false hope that either the witcher or the evidence of the witcher’s work, had vanished. “What ill luck.” He muttered when no such thing had occurred. The man returned, having retrieved a large sack from a locked chest at the end of an exceptionally large bed, and reluctantly held it out to the witcher. “Here you are. Eighty Novigrad crowns.”

The witcher raised an eyebrow. “The contract was for a hundred twenty.”

“Yes, well. I said you would have what we could give you. Had you killed the monster the first night, you would have gotten your hundred and twenty crowns. But as it stands we could only spare eighty. Had to buy replacement cattle you see.”

“I see.” The corner of the witcher’s lip twitched as he took the bag of coins. Geralt straightened and moved away from the door.

The alderman stopped him from leaving completely. “Ah. Witcher, ser." He said, wringing his hands and eyeing the head with mild disgust. "You may, however, take your hard-won prize and see if it couldn’t fetch a price elsewhere. I hear sorcerers are always looking for… interesting specimens.”

“How generous,” Geralt responded dryly, retrieving the Katakan head from the expanding sticky puddle in the entranceway.

He heard the door slam behind him as he made his way back to the awaiting Roach.

Geralt tossed the head into the nearby ditch, where it bounced twice before stopping against a rock. While the sun would do little to it, the local carrion birds were not picky eaters. Geralt divided the disappointing sack of coins between his person and the saddlebags.

With an ease learned from constant repetition, the witcher swung a leg over his horse’s back and settled his feet in the stirrups. Clicking his tongue, Geralt spurred Roach forwards. Hopefully, the weather would hold long enough to quickly reduce the distance between here and the nearest meal and, more desperately, a warm bath.

****

It was late morning when the first storm clouds loomed overhead, and by late afternoon it was pouring. A dilapidated shack by the wayside proved an adequate rest stop for the weary pair.

Roach shook the water from her coat while Geralt peeled back his wet leather armor and gloves, leaving on his knee-high boots and dark pants. He piled debatably dry wreckage from his surroundings and lit it with a complex finger sign of Igni. The wood sputtered and hissed as the enchanted flame tried to find purchase. Eventually, with a bit of coaxing, the fire roared to a self-sustaining height. The witcher leaned back to enjoy the sudden warmth upon his bare chest - bare, save for the multitude of old scars and the wolf medallion that rested on it. He lay his swords down on the dirt-encrusted floor, still within his reach should the need arise.

The storm raging outside the leaky shelter would remain for a few more hours and despite his enhanced stamina, exhaustion was starting to take its toll. He stretched and closed his eyes and within seconds found himself in a light sleep.

It didn’t last long.

His eyes snapped open immediately in response to his medallion shaking. Geralt’s arm moved to the hilt of the silver sword at his side as his piercing eyes scanned his surroundings. Nothing stirred, save for his horse pawing at the ground, impatiently waiting for the rain to stop. He strained his ears trying to listen for anything unusual past the soft patter of rain.  _Anything._ A rustle of leaves from the nearby brush or the snap of a breaking branch.  _Anything._ But he waited and waited. With muscles tense as coiled springs, he continued to hear …  _nothing_. He loosened his iron grip on his sword but remained upright, unsure of what to make of his still-vibrating medallion.

It was as the witcher started settling down again that he saw it. The metallic ball he had found earlier - which now appeared golden without the influence of the witcher’s potion affecting his vision. It had somehow fallen out of the bag where he had kept it.

His medallion pulled harder on his neck as he reached out for the sphere. The ball rolled away from his fingers and into the pouring rain outside. Geralt tentatively chased after the ball, silver sword in hand.

****

The rain slicked his hair to his pale face as his boots squished through the mud. He squinted against the unrelenting downpour looking for signs of the golden sphere.

A sudden lurch of his medallion was the only warning he had before it whizzed by his head.

The orb landed in the muck behind him. Long spindly legs unwrapped and held a slightly smaller sphere above the mud like a golden spider. It scuttled towards him in quick unpredictable zigzags.

As it jumped for him again, he moved his fingers to form Aard and caught the ball in a quick blast of magic that repelled it back into the sludge. The mechanical device was not dissuaded and continued its assault.

Geralt caught its next leap with the edge of his rune-lined sword, severing one of its eight limbs. The leg nicked his cheek on its way to the ground, causing a bead of red to form. He tsked at his own carelessness. The witcher thrust the blade's tip towards the spider, but it managed to skitter out of the way of his strike.

A growl snuck its way out of Geralt’s lips, a result of his tired frustration bubbling to the surface. The ball pounced at him, undeterred by Geralt’s utterance.

He cast Aard again as it hurtled towards him, but this time the sign had no effect. A grimace slipped onto his face as Geralt twisted his body away from the golden projectile. Its arms clawing the air as it passed, drew blood as it grazed the surface of his chest with razor-tipped appendages.

The slick mud made footing difficult as he charged the ball. He swiped at it with his sword, missing by a hair’s breadth. He pirouetted and struck again. This time catching it against the flat of the blade. The blow launched it into the brush, startling the nearby Roach who whinnied in reproach.

The distance gave Geralt enough time to cast Yrden on the ground in front of him, with no way of knowing if the trapping sign would have any effect on the mechanical creature.

The witcher allowed himself a moment to breathe as he waited for the golden spider to re-emerge from the undergrowth. White mist billowed from his nostrils as he breathed in and out in slow controlled breaths. Rain slapped the nearby roof and stirred growing puddles. Even Roach had grown quiet in apprehension.

Leaves rustled and Geralt edged himself backward. With luck, he could lure the orb onto the trap. It erupted from the brush seemingly unhindered by the muck. Geralt readied himself for its inevitable leap. On cue, the mechanical creature jumped for him, but its attack was short-lived. It spasmed midair as it soared over the Yrden trap and fell to the ground in a twitching heap.

In seconds, the witcher was over the ball. He held his silver sword with two hands and brought the blade down over the prone device.

In the last possible instant, the spider tucked in its legs and rolled to the side of the oncoming strike. It unfurled again as the blade cut into the ground and wrapped its legs around the sword as Geralt was raising the silver to attempt another strike. Geralt flicked his wrist, hoping to dislodge the unwanted hitchhiker. The ball wobbled but held on, letting go only to jump at him again. He saw it coming at him and barely managed to cast the shield sign, Quen. The orange translucent barrier shattered as the gold orb came into contact with it, holding just long enough for Geralt to twist his throat away from the ball's attack.

Instead, it latched greedily onto his right shoulder. Its seven remaining limbs clamping down hard and digging deep grooves into his flesh, drawing a roar of pain from the witcher. Instinctively, Geralt reached for it with his left hand and, in a mess of blood and gore, he tore the device from his shoulder. It wriggled and squirmed in his grip, clawing at his hand for freedom. He winced as each stroke of its slender legs sliced through weathered skin.

Still holding onto the flailing ball, the witcher dropped to his knees. With the silver sword in his right hand, he held it over his left, gritting his teeth at what was to come next. Downwards the blade plunged, cutting first into skin, then muscle, and finally stilling the mechanical menace below. A bolt of energy lanced up his arm, spasming his muscles and further wrecking his hand against the sword that impaled it. He grunted, biting down the urge to scream.

Geralt was spent and he knew it. Blood flowed freely down his right side, and his hand would be useless until it healed, that is, _if it healed._  He gingerly removed the sword, but would not cast the precious blade aside despite how heavy it currently felt. Cradling his injured hand close to his side, he stumbled his way back to the shelter.

He barely managed to cast Axii to calm Roach before the horse panicked at the smell and sight of his blood. He was losing consciousness faster than he predicted, and nearly collapsed trying to dig the glass vial containing Swallow from Roach’s saddle bag. After removing the vial’s cork with his teeth, Geralt drank down the red liquid. The witcher could feel its effects almost immediately but was alarmed when he didn’t start healing as fast as he needed to for a wound of this severity.  _Was there some sort of magical residue hindering his healing?_ He didn’t have the luxury of pondering. His vision was fading along the edges and it would be mere moments before he passed out. He grabbed his still rain-wet shirt and tore strips off of it. A few he wrapped around his injured hand, the rest he bundled and pressed against the injury on his shoulder. Geralt felt consciousness slipping from him, and he used the nearby wall to ease his slide to the floor before he fell to it instead. His sight was narrowing and the world was turning hazy. Before he went under completely, Geralt had but one thought:  _Ciri._


	2. Lady of Worlds

_"You know where to find me",_ Geralt’s voice echoed in her head. Ciri absentmindedly played with the silver amulet around her neck. It could never replace the one she had lost in her fight with the Witches of Crookback Bog, but Yennefer had assured her that it would instead react when Geralt needed her most. Yennefer didn’t specify how, but Ciri held on to it nevertheless, somehow making it an accessory to every outfit she wore or was forced into by her chamberlain; her current outfit being a simple white blouse and black riding pants.

“Your Majesty?” An inquiring voice called her from her thoughts. The beady-eyed noble awaited her response, albeit probably not the response she was going to give him.

“Yes, I see your point, however…” The chain rattled against her neck, set in motion by the humming amulet. A tingling sensation ran through her body and she saw him briefly. A whisper of an image.  _Torn. Beaten. Dying._

“Your Majesty?” The noble said again, adjusting the crimson scarf wrapped around his neck with an index finger. Apparently, he had tied it too tight prior to their meeting.

Ciri cleared her throat, trying to prevent concern from showing on her face. Relief came in the form of a knock on the door. A man she barely recognized as one of the palace runners peeked his head inside. “I don’t mean to intrude on your meeting, your Imperial Majesty, but the Lady Yennefer has asked to see you. She says it is quite urgent.” The young empress nodded at the messenger, and the young man swiftly returned to his other duties.

With the man’s leave, a practiced smile spread on Ciri’s face. She stood slowly, pushing up from the ancient desk on gloved fingers. “It’s unfortunate, but it looks like I am needed elsewhere. We will need to continue this another time, Lord…” She paused trying to recall the man’s name.

“… Cedrick, your Majesty.” The noble finished for her. “I’m sure the Lady could wait a few more…”

“I’m afraid not, Lord Cedrick. We will convene again some other time. For now, it appears I have other matters to attend.” Ciri stepped quickly, her boot heels clicking harshly against the marble flooring as she restrained herself from straight-out running from the room. The amulet was shaking vigorously now and it threatened to snap the chain holding it around her neck. She stilled it in her hand as if smothering a screaming child.

****

Once clear of the Imperial guards outside the receiving room, she flew down the hall towards the tower the sorceress had claimed as her own. In her hurry, she almost passed by Yennefer completely.

“Ciri! Slow down. What's wrong?” Yennefer asked, having no idea of Ciri’s vibrating amulet. The sorceress had merely sent the messenger to pull Ciri from the office the young empress had sat in for the past few days dealing with the endless trivialities of court.

Ciri released her white-knuckled grip on the amulet and let it swing free. The sorceress’ brilliantly violet eyes widened as her eyes fell upon the quivering talisman. Instantly she knew the source of Ciri’s duress.

Without another word, the black-haired woman grabbed the slender wrist of the ashen-haired empress and nearly dragged Ciri through the door to her tower.

“When did it start?’ Asked Yennefer, closing the door tightly behind them to prevent any unwanted eavesdropping. Her painted lips pursed tightly.

“Recently…”

“Good. Then we may have some time.” Yennefer placed a black-gloved hand on a shapely hip as she did so often in nervous habit.

“Time?” Concern flickered to Ciri’s emerald eyes. “Yennefer, in how much trouble is Geralt in?”

“Enough that those potions of his aren’t doing him any good.” Yennefer met Ciri’s eyes and saw the internal turmoil that lay there. “Ciri, I need you to focus. Do you know where he is?”

Ciri tried to think back to the faded image that she had seen, but there had been nothing recognizable. Tears welled up in her eyes. “No, it went by too fast. I saw a shed. Maybe. It was hard to tell.” She was on the verge of crying, the reality of a dreaded possibility dawning on her. " _Witchers never die in their sleep"_ , a voice softly reminded her.

Yennefer lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Ciri. Being overwhelmed now isn’t going to help. I know it’s hard, but I need you to calm down.” She gave Ciri a weak smile as similar emotions were beginning to show on the surface on her own icy composure. Soothed slightly, Ciri nodded. “That’s right. Now concentrate on what you saw, on what you felt at that moment, let the amulet guide you.”

Ciri bit her lip and did as she was told. With the amulet clamped tightly in her grip, she closed her eyes. She turned her focus to the faint image.

A fire now burned down to coals. Water dripping through a neglected roof. The usual heady smell of earth cleared away by the recent rainfall. But there was something else. The stench of metal permeated the air.

 _No, not metal; blood._   _And a lot of it._  The vision wavered, but only for a moment as Ciri squeezed the amulet, letting its pointed edges dig into her fleshy palm. Yennefer remained quiet, watching her wearily.

A horse. A bay, stood nearby, bizarrely unconcerned with the limp form propped up beside it. The familiar gleam of a silver longsword lay fallen beside the man. Blood, not yet dry, streaked his naked torso and partially stained the dirty wooden slats below. A crimson soaked bundle of cloth lay loosely against his shoulder, a hand lying atop the pile that had been applying pressure to staunch the flow. The man’s prematurely greyed hair, partially pulled free from the half-ponytail tied high on the back of his head, hung loosely around his face. Geralt’s golden eyes closed tight in a grimace of pain and exhaustion.

Instantly she knew where he was and realized that they wouldn’t make it on time traveling by any conventional means. But she alone could do it. She could reach him.  _Hopefully, before it was too late._

The air around her shimmered with a pale-blue light. Space and time itself twisted and bent around her. An instant later she was gone, vanishing completely from the Nilfgaardian palace.

****

There had been signs of a struggle in the muck, but with what Ciri couldn’t immediately tell. Her own witcher training made her hesitate, but she ran for the dilapidated shack despite herself. She stumbled, slowed momentarily by the clinging mud.

Inside, the horse looked up at her approach and eyed her warily. “Geralt?” Her voice barely above a whisper. He was pale, paler than she had ever seen him, and still.  _Far too still._ Her legs collapsed, suddenly unable to support her weight. “Geralt.” She knelt beside him and lay her head upon his chest, careful of his wounds.  _Why was he so cold? So very cold._ Her arms snaked around his body as she fought back tears. “Not like this …” She breathed into his good shoulder. Ciri’s grip tightened as she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears ran down her face, streaking her black eyeliner. “Not like this.”

Uttering a soft moan, he stirred under her ever so slightly, the sound pulling Ciri to her senses. She hugged him once more before teleporting them back to where Yennefer was still likely waiting.


	3. The Raven's Fear

"Well…" Yennefer sighed, addressing the pacing Ciri. "He's stable for now at least." She pulled the wooden door to one of the many guest bedrooms' closed softly behind her. It latched with a soft click. A troubled expression played on Yennefer's face. Geralt's injuries weren't healing as fast as they should, especially considering the witcher's healing potion she could still smell on his breath.

He had been lucky, _or unlucky as seemed more evident at the moment_. Amid the mangled mess of his shoulder Yennefer had detected traces of some sort of magic or unrecognizable elixir. Regardless of what the substance was, it had slowed Geralt's heart, granting him the precious time needed for Ciri to bring him to safety before he completely bled out.

The wound on his hand would heal. Geralt was fortunate to have not hit anything vital, but there remained worrisome black marks that followed the lines of his veins up to his elbow. These were what currently plagued Yennefer's thoughts. For the moment the markings didn't appear to be spreading and the sleeping spell she cast over the witcher would ensure this while she was away tending to other matters. _At least until his annoyingly magic-resistant constitution worked through the spell_. Regardless, it wasn't a matter that she was willing to bring up with Ciri, at least until she was more sure of what was going on. Ciri had enough to worry about as it was, and Yennefer would hate to add something that could end up being trivial to that list. Her first priority would be to consult someone from the Lodge of Sorceresses on the recent turn of events.

"Yennefer…" Ciri's voice called the sorceress from her thoughts. Her vivid green eyes searched Yennefer's face for reassurance but found none.

"He'll be alright. Geralt's recovered from worse scrapes." Yennefer forced with a smile.

Ciri remained unconvinced. She looked past Yennefer, past the closed door, seeing only Geralt and the broken state she had found him in.

"Ciri." She stroked Ciri's cheek tenderly, "He will make it through this." Yennefer found herself somehow speaking with a conviction that even surprised herself, and it took a few seconds before she could say anything more. "There's a few things I need to look over, and I'm sure there are more important things that you should be occupying your time with." From the puppy-eyed expression on Ciri's face it was apparent that Ciri was sure there couldn't be anything more worthy demanding her attention. Yennefer's face softened. Before being an empress, the young woman was still Ciri, and Ciri couldn't sit idly by. "I _was_ going to set up a portal later to retrieve his things and possibly investigate what caused him to get like this in the first place, but if you…"

Ciri's face lit up. "I'll do it. I can't just sit here. Please let me do it Yennefer. Please."

"As advisor to the Empress, first and foremost I would…" Traces of a genuine smile touched the corner of Yennefer's lips, as once more Ciri pleaded with puppy eyes. "… have no clue as to her current whereabouts."

For the first time in a long while, a smile crept to Ciri's face. She hugged the sorceress, whispering thanks in Yennefer's ear before vanishing once more in a blue light.

Yennefer was suddenly alone. With quick steps, she turned on her heel and retreated back to her tower where she could hopefully get some answers.

****

It was Keira Metz whom Yennefer finally contacted via her recalibrated megascope.

The blue image of the blond sorceress flickered into focus between the three metal stands supporting fine crystals and glass lenses in bronze plates. "Yennefer, to what do I owe this surprise?" The younger sorceress purred. From her appearance, Yennefer surmised that Keira had been doing much better for herself than when they had last met that fateful day at Kaer Morhen. Her outfit for one, had been upgraded from dire rags to something more fetching, though the garment was cut far too low for Yennefer's taste – the neckline reaching nearly to Keira's navel.

"I require your insight with a particular matter."

Keira tapped the side of her head, a playful look in her dark eyes. "This wouldn't have anything to do with _your_ witcher, would it?"

"How…" A flush rose to Yennefer's otherwise unperturbed face.

Keira chuckled. "I am hardly your first choice. If it didn't involve Geralt, Triss would have been the first person you turned to for a consult."

Less than amused, Yennefer continued. "Yes… well… regardless, I still require your help." She waved her hand. The image of the markings she saw on Geralt's arm flickered to life between them.

Keira's brow furrowed, but before she could reply there was a loud thump behind her. "Keira, you in here?" Yennefer recognized the metallic voice of the reckless young witcher. The sound of footsteps neared.

"I'm predisposed at the moment." Keira answered back, not taking her eyes off of the picture before her.

"Nonsense. Tell them to call back." Lambert's face came into view as he grabbed the woman from behind. His leather wrapped hands eagerly groped up her body as he leaned in to nuzzle Keira's neck. His short-kept beard tickled her soft skin as his chapped lips traced up her throat. Keira nearly let out a soft moan.

"One does not simply tell Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg to call back just because you have a sudden urge." Keira said with a coy smile on her face, managing just barely to keep her own dignity intact.

Lambert's eager hands lurched to a halt at the mention of Yennefer's name. His hands retreated from under Keira's blouse and rested awkwardly at his side. "… could have warned me ahead of time." He mumbled. Lambert may not like the raven-haired sorceress, but he did hold an amount of respect for her. Lambert stepped back and the dark-leather-clad witcher disappeared from view.

Keira returned her full attention to the projected image. "Do you know what caused it?"

"If I had that information I wouldn't be asking for help."

Time passed as Keira analyzed the image before her. Lambert fading in and out of view, was obviously pacing in the background. Despite his naturally light step, Yennefer couldn't help noticing the rhythmic tapping of his boots against the wood flooring.

More than once Keira asked to see other views and even the wound on Geralt's hand. Each time Yennefer obliged. "I agree that you have every right to be concerned, but without knowing the source I can't help you." Keira finally said.

"I was afraid of as much…" Yennefer supported the side of her head with delicate fingers. Her arm supported on her waist clad in black velvet.

Tired of the sorceresses' ponderings, Lambert finally looked away from the floor and froze instantly. "Who's arm is that?" His attention focused solely on the image. A look of fear and concern affixed to his rough but handsome features. Both Keira and Yennefer turned to him, neither one breaking the fallen silence. "Who's arm is that!?" Lambert barked with a sharpness only a witcher's voice could manage.

"Geralt's." Breathed Keira.

"Shit." Lambert resumed his pacing, his idle hands now making quick strokes through his short auburn hair. His next words made Yennefer's heart lurch to a stop. "I haven't seen anything like that since the Trails of the Grasses…"


	4. Following the Wolf's Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to reference the third? book (I think “Blood of Elves” is the third book anyway) for Ciri’s sword training with Coën, as the game’s description of her time at Kaer Morhen was a little vague, otherwise as the rest of the story goes, it should still be closely referencing Witcher 3 as much as possible.
> 
> Hope you guys are enjoying it as much I as I have writing it so far. :)

The dense overhead clouds had finally parted, allowing the orange glow of the low-hanging sun to peek through. It would have been a completely serene scene had it not been marred by the signs of conflict and the overwhelming stench of blood that wafted towards her on the breeze.

Ciri took a moment to calm her nerves.  _She needed her wits about her. She needed to stay in control._  She slapped the sides of her face. A light blush rose to her cheeks where she struck them, but it had worked. Already Ciri could feel herself calming down.

She looked around the scene again. The horse - whom she guessed was named Roach as Geralt was nothing but predictable in that regard - had strayed from its initial position, the stench ultimately overcoming the calming spell it had been put under.

Her eyes wandered over the muddy tracks, and she had to put in a mild effort to ignore the occasional fresh hoof print. She followed the oldest footprints, which eventually lead her back to the abandoned building.  _“What am I going to do now?”_  Coën’s voice echoed in her head.

Ciri faintly remembers her youthful protest of confusion.  _“How am I to know?”_

 _“Watch my feet! How is my body weight distributed?”_  Her phantom teacher instructed. Ciri stepped out, letting her own prints fall atop the witcher’s.

Geralt’s tracks had been close together, light despite his weight sinking in the mud.  _Hesitant, but cautious._  Ciri thought. A smeared print indicated a sudden shift in weight, and Ciri twisted her body to mimic the movement. Something had been aiming for his head. Geralt’s prints indicated that he must have turned his body to face his unknown assailant. The weight of his footprints digging deeper into the mud where he must have braced himself for something.

Ciri strained her eyes to try and find other sets of tracks both near and far, but was recognizing nothing.  _Was Geralt fighting a spector? A Noonwraith?_  It would explain the lack of additional prints. Ciri raised her arms in mock combat, gripping an invisible sword in her hands.  _No, the location isn’t quite right, neither is his stance._  She stepped back, careful to match her feet with Geralt’s larger steps. While Ciri couldn’t detect the residual magic, the peculiar ripples in the mud indicated Geralt’s use of Aard.  _Besides Aard wouldn’t have been his first choice against a wraith._

A glint of gold caught her eye, and she bent to pick up the source. It was some sort of metal, paper thin and under the pressure of her fingers, it bent slightly. Faintly, she touched the cat-head medallion tied to her belt, but felt no vibrations from it. A frown slipped to her lips as she pocketed the thin blade-like sheet of metal. Its edge had indicated that it had been cut by a blade, more specifically, a witcher’s blade. A harpy perhaps? They had been known to collect baubles of sorts from time to time. Ciri shook her head.  _No. If that had been the case, where were the tell-tale feathers that would have been left behind after such a struggle._

The wind picked up, stirring strands of hair pulled loose from her bun. Ciri tucked a mousy lock that had stuck to the gloss of her lips back behind an ear.

She continued following Geralt’s tracks, mimicking his movements and imagined sword thrusts. More than once she found his movement confused, conflicted, and full of last-minute adjustments that resulted in messy footwork. Whatever Geralt had faced, it had managed to catch the battle-hardened witcher unawares, and that didn’t happen often,  _if ever_. She continued to trace his path to the battle’s eventual end. Ciri knelt to inspect the tracks. Geralt had finished the unexpected duel kneeling.  _Why?_  Hoping to glean more information, she waved a tan-gloved hand over the mud.

Suddenly, Ciri felt the hairs on her neck prickle. She wheeled, trying to catch a glimpse of the eyes she felt upon her. But, as quickly as it started, the feeling vanished and Ciri saw nothing, not even scampering shadows. Biting her lower lip in growing frustration, she returned her focus to inspecting Geralt’s skirmish, determined to return with something useful.

Half buried in the muck she found …  _something_. A golden ball made of similar metal to the piece she had found earlier. She held it out in her fingers, inspecting the lines traced across it. A large but shallow groove spiraled its way around the orb and Ciri pulled the metal bit from her pocket. It fit; though without the pressure of Ciri’s fingers holding it in place, the piece simply fell out. Absentmindedly, Ciri touched her witcher medallion again, but the silver cat head remained motionless.

Ciri stood, putting the ball and metal sliver back into a pouch.  _Hopefully, Yennefer can make more of it_. She turned back to the shack, her eyes following the wavering trail of Geralt’s most recent footprints, and pushed down the growing lump in her throat.

It was as bad as she remembered it, save for Geralt no longer lying along the dusty wooden slats of what once could have been a modest floor. She gathered up the witcher's precious silver sword and respectfully wiped the blade clean before placing it back in its sheath. Holding the sword tightly, she made sure to retrieve the steel blade as well, and after several quick adjustments to both of the sheaths' harnesses, they strung snuggly across her back. With her hands once again free, she set to collecting Geralt's silver-studded jerkin and leather gauntlets. Ciri went to retrieve the remains of his shirt, but hesitated over the bloodied linen.  _It was far too ruined to be of worth anymore._  She left it.

Her emerald eyes swept once more over the wreckage. Her eyes passed over the shattered chair fragments near the fire pit that Geralt must have used for fuel. She was looking for something more significant. Anything she might have missed, but besides a cork and fragments of a broken potion vial there was nothing else that could have belonged to Geralt inside the shack.

She prepared to leave when she heard a snort and a whinny from outside.  _Roach_. She had almost forgotten. Geralt wasn't known to keep the same horse long, but that didn't say anything about its tack, and saddle bag’s contents. The latter of which, Ciri was sure Geralt would prefer to keep.

Ciri approached the mare slowly, cooing softly in an attempt to ease the skittish horse. She didn’t know if she could teleport both herself and the horse, but it would be easier and weigh less on her conscience than just stripping Roach and leaving the bay to fend for itself. “It’s all right,” Ciri assured the horse. Its ears pivoted towards her, and a hoof stamped the earth warning Ciri against trying anything. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Roach stared back with understanding black eyes. “Good.” With a free hand Ciri let the horse sniff her before stroking Roach’s soft nose. The tension in the bay’s stance eased and the mare allowed Ciri to slip into the saddle. For a brief moment, a sad smile slipped onto her face as her legs barely reached the stirrups, reminding her once again why she had come. “That’s good Roach,” Ciri said as she patted the side of the horse. Now comes the hard part. She took a deep breath.  _With luck, the stable hands were on break._  Ciri would hate having to explain how she got into the stables clutching a man’s armor and swords atop a strange horse.

* * *

The shadow watched as a blue shimmer surrounded the  _human_  woman and horse. Seconds later both she and animal had vanished, taking with them the Saov Llestr. He whispered something to the magpie that sat atop his gnarled staff, and it took off into the sky. The wind caught his heavy cloak briefly revealing a snarl and pointed ear as his fist tightened around the rowan staff in his grip. He turned away, fading once more from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dropping a hint here... (mainly because I had to mix some Welsh and Elder Speech found at http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Elder_Speech and google translate doesn't translate it nicely). Saov Llestr = Soul Vessel.
> 
> I promise Geralt will get some more air time… just might be a little while until I figure out where this crazy train is headed.


	5. In Wolf's Clothing

Yennefer hated waiting. She hated sitting idle when she could be doing something. And currently she was growing to also hate the writings of Gonzal de Verceo, having read the poet’s verse collection for the third time while awaiting Ciri's return.

If there had been any truth to Lambert's startling observation, then Yennefer couldn't risk waking Geralt for a second opinion. As it were, the sleeping spell seemed be holding the ailment at bay.  _If only Vesemir were still alive._  The wizened witcher would have been able to confirm or deny any allegations safely and perhaps offer insight into a possible cure.

She sighed and snapped the book closed, placing it atop the polished mahogany tabletop beside her elbow. Delicate fingertips went to her temple to ease a growing headache.

A voice broke the candle-lit room's silence. “Cad? Cad me?”

It was Geralt's voice. He was finally breaking through the enchanted sleep, though why the witcher was speaking in the Elder's Speech was beyond her. “Safe Geralt. You're safe.” Yennefer answered. Her violet eyes settled on the large canopied bed centered along the far side of the room.

“Geralt?… Me n’esse…” The man sat up clutching his bandaged arm, his face contorting in pain. “Beth tuvehan te tuve um me?” He accused her, rocking his arm close to his chest.

“I have done nothing to…” She looked up, her eyes meeting his penetrating gaze that never wavered from her face. His hand was busy groping towards a pair of bandage scissors left on the side table and in response, Yennefer began pulling away from the blue cushioned chair where she had spent the previous hours.

A hint of concern edged into Yennefer’s voice. “Geralt…?”

“Me n’esse Geralt.” He spat.

Her lips tensed, and she touched the obsidian star tied around her throat.  Her violet eyes briefly danced across his familiar features searching for a hint of recognition within his _… green… eyes. Green… why were they green? Something was wrong, something was very wrong._  Magic flared across her choker’s surface as she readied a spell.

His grip tightened around the scissors, as his eyes flitted between her and the door behind her.

“Te sees cáemm neén vort!” Yennefer warned.

“Esseath aép neén ban um voe’rle me.” He had slipped away from the bed and had begun creeping towards her, his feet padding softly along the intricately woven rug that decorated the black and white stone-tile floor.

“Que corff n’ess eich yn saov.”   _Metamorphic possession was not completely unheard of…_  “Me byddai gweld te ddychwelyd iddo.”  _… but for a witcher to fall under influence of a spirit?_

The man hesitated, unsure of what to make of her accusation.

 _Don't make me do this._ Thought Yennefer bitterly, as the man seemingly had overcome his doubt and took another step forward. Then another. His intent was written plainly on his borrowed face. _Please, don't make me do this._

The single candle flame flickered as the air crackled with magic. A knock at the door punctuated the quiet, and the moment's distraction was all it took for the green eyed spector to close the space between them.

“Geralt!” Shrieked Yennefer, as the scissors came stabbing down.

There was a clang of steel on steel, as Ciri deflected the blow. She pulled up beside Yennefer and held the witcher's sword out protectively across the both of them.

Agony spiked across the specter's body as the black marks wound their way higher up his arm, spurring him into action again.

Ciri readied herself for a strike that never came.

The scissors hovered in the air, the hand holding them straining with effort. “Ci … ri?” There was a moment of recognition in once more golden eyes. “Yen-” Geralt's voice was cut off as a spasm of excruciating pain took hold. Swirls of green began stealing back into his eyes.

All at once Yennefer released the magic that hung in the air, redirecting its initial offensive purpose. “Egvane navr.”

The sleeping spell gripped Geralt and dragged him unconscious, tearing the scissors from his hand in the process. His body fell to the floor with a resounding thud, and both Ciri and Yennefer winced as his head bounced off the stone.

Ciri lowered the steel and returned it to its sheath. “Yennefer… what’s happening to Geralt?” Asked Ciri, her back still to the sorceress. Her eyes set on Geralt’s unconscious form.

Yennefer knelt beside the fallen witcher and carefully opened an eye. It was gold. Relief was fleeting as she recalled the events that had transpired. The black marks’ progressions had been halted once more.

“Yennefer?”

_How could she to explain what was happening to Geralt, when she barely understood it herself? Regardless of the spirit’s intentions, the possession would kill him. Geralt’s witcher mutations were reacting violently against the metamorphosis, forcing a rejection that should never have occurred …_

“Yennefer.” Ciri touched her shoulder, startling Yennefer away from her thoughts. “What's going on?”

 _He's dying_. Careful not to betray her thoughts, the sorceress replied. "I don't know."

“You're lying.” There was a quiver in the young empress’ voice.

“Ciri…”

“No Yennefer. Don't shelter me. Don't try to protect me from this. I want the truth. Please. What's happening to Geralt? Why did he try to hurt… no. Why did he try to kill you?”

 _Perceptive as always. That would be your doing wouldn't it?_  Yennefer stroked a loose silver strand away from Geralt’s face. “I wish I knew Ciri. I wish I knew.”

“But you have a suspicion? You always have some clue, some hint…”

“I do.”

“Then…?”

“If we leave things as they are we'll lose him. Either the rejection will take him, or he'll no longer be the man we knew. Either way, we will lose him.” She sighed. “This is something beyond even my abilities to fix."

The answer Yennefer gave Ciri was beyond her, that much was evident on Ciri's fallen expression.  _She wasn't ready to hear it, despite how she had begged._  "We… we can. We'll find a way to help him, we won't leave Geralt like this. We can't. We can't…" Ciri's hand went to the baldric holding the swords along her back, as if afraid they would suddenly disappear.

Yennefer's heart ached for Ciri.  _How much easier it could have been to just continue to lie to her to avoid such pain._  She forced a smile. "You're right Ciri. We can't just give up yet. Not while there is still time." The sorceress held her arms open for the young woman. “Come here.” Ciri nearly fell into Yennefer’s embrace, eager for the comfort that her black-and-white cloaked arms promised. “I will do everything in my power to help him, this I promise you.” Yennefer stroked Ciri’s hair and held her close. “This I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translations:  
> Cad? Cad me? - Where? Where am I?  
> Beth tuvehan te tuve um me? - What did you do to me?  
> Me n'esse Geralt. - I am not Geralt.  
> Te sees cáemm neén vort. - You will go no further.  
> Esseath aép neén ban um voe'rle me. - You are in no place to stop me.  
> Que corff n'ess eich yn saov. - That body is not your's spirit.  
> Me byddai gweld te ddychwelyd iddo. - I would see you return him.
> 
> Okay… Got to try out my hand at Elder Speech… I apologize for anything that you guys feel is wrong (feel free to put in the comments or PM me what the Elder Speech should have been, but I really did try to be as accurate as I could and substituted in Welsh and Irish where I couldn’t find anything that worked).


	6. Wake the White Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't blame Geralt... I'd trust Phillipa as far as I can throw her, and I'm not a very strong person...

"Are you sure this will work?"  _Triss?_

Geralt tried to open his eyes but found himself unable to.

"If any of you ladies have a better suggestion… Hush, I think I have a connection."  _Now there's a voice he thought he'd never hear again… Philippa Eilhart’s_. Something cold and heavy was laid over his heart. He tried to pull away from its eerie touch but found moving impossible. In fact, he found he couldn’t even twitch a muscle. “Witcher? You should be able to hear us now, though probably not able to do much else.”  _Reassuring,_ he thought snarkily. “I need you to focus on the sensation on your chest…”  _Easy enough considering it is the only thing I can feel_. “And you mustn’t resist what is to come next.”

A humming filled the resounding silence and the thing draped across his upper body shivered in response. It stretched and warped, as icy tendrils began slowly coiling over his body. It was as if dead fingers were tracing his frame, leaving wet trails in their wake. They rode over the rise of his muscles and plunged into his depths, probing his every inch. It was invasive yet intimate and he just wanted it to  _stop_. He wanted to  _shut it out…_

“Witcher!” Phillipa’s voice cautioned. There was a strain in her voice that he had not heard before, and Geralt reluctantly relaxed. The chill enveloped him completely and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. Every instinct he had, battle honed or otherwise, screamed at him, urged him to fight against the thing encasing him. He pushed those urges aside, and calmed his mind.  _Phillipa… if you try anything…_  Geralt let the threat smolder, using it as a life raft amidst his turbulent impulses. 

****

He bolted upright, gasping in the night air. Chilled sweat beaded down his nearly naked body and soaked into the plush cream-colored sheets below him. His hair, no longer tied, hung free about his face. Geralt rested his chin against his chest and tried to regain control over his rapid breathing.

Sensation was slowly returning to his extremities as he wriggled his fingers checking for any possible paralysis. His body made sure to alert him to its other many aches and pains.  _How long have I been out?_  Geralt rolled his shoulder, testing its limits to determine how it was healing.  _Not well enough._  He winced at the pain’s sharpness, and a red stain blossomed across the white bandage.  _Dammit._

Geralt reached to touch the injury but was distracted by the clink of a chain. His wrists had been bound to the headboard, with enough slack that his arms had been able to lie comfortably at his sides as he slept. It wasn’t the first time he’d been put in irons wearing nothing more than his skivvies, but damned if he knew how he got that way.  _Especially considering I'm painted head to toe with more red runes and magic symbols than I could possibly identify._

“So sleeping beauty finally wakes. Shall I reward you with a kiss?” This time it was Keira’s voice, and he quickly scanned the room to find out where it came from. Geralt found her sitting in the south-east corner, a red hardcover book in hand. Her reading material illuminated by a white candle which had burned down to a mere stub.

“I think you’re getting the order mixed up there.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve Zeugls,” she said as she waved his correction away dismissively.

He couldn’t help chuckling, it was some of the first warm human contact he’s had in awhile, peculiar circumstances aside. However, a sudden throb through his injured hand brought his mind back to a more immediate question: “What happened?”

“That’s something we were hoping you could answer Geralt.”

“We?” With his good hand, he rubbed the back of neck hoping to work out a kink that had settled there. Faint memories of voices he heard earlier pushed forward. “Triss… Phillipa. They here too?” His eyes darting around the dark room as if to catch glimpses of the other sorceresses hiding somewhere amongst the surrounding shadows.

“ _Were_  here. They’re resting now, your Yennefer too I believe. It’s was surprisingly taxing to drag your spirit back to the land of the living.”

“I died?”

“Hardly. It’s just easier to explain it that way.”

“And the chains…?” He shook his wrist to emphasize that he was in fact still shackled.

“It would appear you managed to pick up an unwanted stowaway, one that happened to ‘take the reins’ so to speak.”

A feeling of dread dropped to the pit of his stomach as he recalled an image of a frightened Ciri, pleading with her eyes for him to stop. It was an image he had hoped to have simply dreamed.

"Did I…?" He couldn't finish his thought. More than that, he didn't want to.

"No one got hurt if that's what you're worrying about. Well, no one except for you…"

A semblance of relief washed over the witcher's nearly expressionless face. "What happens now?"

"Now? Now I go fetch a healer. It seems that you've managed to pull your stitches."

“Mhm.” The witcher grunted, less as an acknowledgement towards needing a healer than one of acknowledging Keira’s desire to leave to get some sleep of her own. She might not have said as much, but judging from the bags under her eyes she was exhausted.

“Oh, and it would be in your best interest to not disturb those marks…” Keira warned, as the door closed after her. Geralt leaned back into the goose down pillows. It seemed that he wasn’t going to get more answers until morning, and between feeling wide awake and his grumbling stomach, it was going to be a long wait.

****

With the early rays of sunlight entering his room, Geralt had food brought by a fairly nervous servant wearing customary muted colors. Perhaps Geralt should have shown restraint as the silver tray was put down on the side table, but he couldn’t help himself. Sparing nary a crumb, the witcher devoured the bread and hard cheeses greedily and gulped down the accompanying red wine. The servant looked aghast as the food and drink disappeared in seconds, and he took the tray with him lest Geralt eat that too.

Finally sated, Geralt unashamedly brushed the remains of the meal from his beard and peeled his stiff body away from the bed.

With what limited freedom the chains around his arms allowed, Geralt tugged on his breeches that had been washed and left nearby. His eye caught faded black lines running underneath the oil-based paint on his left arm, and a frown deepened on his lips.  _What...?_

A familiar squeal reached his ears, interrupting his thoughts. “Geralt!” Ciri pounced upon him the moment she cleared the doorway. Her arms wrapped him tightly, and despite being momentarily stunned, Geralt returned the same.

The scent of lilac and gooseberries wafted towards his nose as he tore his gaze away from the mousy-haired woman in his arms. “Yen…”

There was an obvious fury locked behind her violet eyes. “What the hell were you thinking?! A Saov Llestr!!!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No… there’s no way you would have known what the device was…” The sorceress sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders.

The initially pleasant atmosphere had evaporated, and Geralt released Ciri. He could tell Yennefer was still frustrated, but at least it was no longer directed at him. “Yen.” Geralt said, reaching out for the raven-haired sorceress. She shied away from his touch, and the chain stopped him short.

“Yes well, while this reunion is sweet and all…” Phillipa had entered the room. “We must attend to more urgent matters regarding you, Witcher.”

“Short of passing out north of Ursten, I don’t recall much."

"Frankly, I'd be surprised if you did remember anything. However, can you at least recall this?" Phillipa held up the all too familiar golden sphere.

His arm twitched towards where his swords once rested on his back, but they had since been moved out of his reach. Phillipa eyed him with hazel eyes, both of which he noted could see him quite clearly despite her prior blindness. Guess she really did find a way to regenerate her sight.  _Sorceresses_.

“It seems you do…” A wry smile slipped onto her lips.

“Why are you here Phillipa?” Scorn thick in his gravelly voice.

“I asked her here.” Yennefer answered. Geralt couldn’t repress the look of disbelief and betrayal from his face.  _She was to keep Phillipa far from the Nilfgaardian Palace, far from Ciri…_  “Your condition was beyond what I could handle…”

“Not to mention deteriorating fast.” Cut in Phillipa. “Had she waited for  _your_  opinion Witcher, you would be good as dead.”

Geralt suppressed a growl, his knuckles turning white as the crescent-moons of his fingernails dug into his calloused palms.

"Had it not been for my intervention I doubt you would be standing here at all." Phillipa appraised the orb in her hand, ignoring Geralt's reaction. "In fact, this conversation would be with someone entirely different."

"Get to the point." Snapped the witcher.

"My point, is that this is a Saov Llestr, a gnomish artifact, all of which were supposedly destroyed nearly four centuries ago. I daren't bother asking where you got it, but the threat it possesses to you still remains. Had you left it intact I could have reversed its spell and trapped the invading soul back inside. But as it stands, I could only come up with a temporary solution."

"So, I should have a favorite tattooist lined up then?" He retorted.

"Don't be so base. The next wound you undoubtedly get would render any tattoo null and void. I have Merigold working on a charm that should prove more reliable."

“Then why are  _you_  still here?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“Curious?”

“How is it that it took nearly everything four experienced sorceresses had to bring you back? The spirit possessing you was intentionally trying to keep you there, as they generally do, but a normal spirit, wraith, or what have you, should only have been able to drain one, maybe two of us. But instead it took four.”

“What’s in this for you Phillipa? Since when did you start doing charity work?”

“Freeing a man of possession is hardly considered charity work … If we are to successfully rid you of whatever it is completely, I require knowing who or what it is. That knowledge alone should prove an ample enough reward.” She was now standing close to him, her peculiar scent of perfume and feathers particularly strong. “You wouldn’t happen to have issue with that?”

The clink of chains filled the silence as Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t even begin to list the issues I have with you poking around in my head.”

Phillipa grew flustered. “It would hardly be poking around. There would be method.” Her hands clenched tightly at her sides lest she try to strangle the witcher.

“I don’t care.” The witcher interjected. “If someone has to be rooting around, I’d rather it be someone I can trust, and that’s hardly you.”

She stared hard at Geralt's accusatory finger. “Fine. I suspect Yennefer would be your preference.” The irritated sorceress turned to Yennefer. “I trust you can get the knowledge I seek?”

An aberrant smile played upon Yennefer’s lips. “Of course.” The look Yennefer exchanged with only Geralt indicated that she knew something she was unwilling to yet share with Phillipa.

"Then I shall take my leave." Giving Geralt one last withering glare, Phillipa left.

Geralt was the first to speak. “Care to share.”

“Not yet. There’s only speculation at this point.”  _Typical_. “Sit.” A gentle push on Geralt’s good shoulder led him back onto the bed.

“Should Ciri be here for this?”

“Believe it or not. It will be easier if she stays.”

He raised a brow.

“Ciri resonated with the thing inside you, dampening its hold. I have suspicions that she is somehow related.”

“So you really are going to do as Phillipa asked?” Geralt sighed as his other, less appropriate thoughts had obviously been put on hold.

“While we might not agree on everything, Philippa has a point. Having a better understanding of what has possessed you will make the extraction process easier. Now close your eyes.” Geralt hesitated, casting a look at Ciri who stood off to the side. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to wake to the same scene again …

Yennefer gently placed her hands on either side of his head. There was a tingling sensation as she focused magic into her fingertips. Gradually, Geralt felt his consciousness slipping. Then, nothing.

* * *

“Pwy ydych te?” Prodded Yennefer, straining against the spirit’s attempts to regain its dominance over Geralt’s body.

The witcher’s eyes scrunched tighter. The specter’s answer flowed from Geralt’s lips slowly. “Me… esse… Cregennan aep Lod.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech (again sorry if I got something wrong):  
> Pwy ydych te? -> Who are you?  
> Me esse Cregennan aep Lod. -> I am Cregennan of Lod
> 
> Those who might not know because he was only mentioned in passing Cregennan of Lod is the human husband to Lara Dorren of Shiadhal. In other words, Ciri’s great great great great… (insert of few more greats) great grandfather… It was said that he was a powerful sorcerer that fell in love with the elven sorceress and was murdered for it by humans and buried somewhere along the Pontar River. This is me now jacking that character and using it for my own nefarious intentions… Tee hee. And just to be clear, it doesn’t mean that Geralt gains Ciri’s teleporting abilities, that was from Lara Dorren’s side of the family.
> 
> Info link (sorry it’s in Polish):  
> http://web.archive.org/web/20000304203010/http://sapkowski.fantasy.art.pl/wc/ciri/cregenna.html.po


	7. Lingering Regrets

The hot midday sun poured in through the open window. The scent of lilac and gooseberries had almost vanished from the room on the gentle breeze that tugged on the drawn-back curtains. A magpie perched along the balcony's stone rail and peered into the lavish room. The witcher lay undisturbed, looking almost peaceful.

The magpie blinked a pearly black eye and fluttered silently into the room, landing on the bed's polished footboard. It watched as the silver-haired man's chest rose and fell with his breath. The animal tilted its black head as if listening for unheard whispers, its eyes never wavering from the man’s figure. The witcher stirred and the magpie took its cue to depart, leaving as quietly as it had come.

* * *

When Geralt came to, he was alone and no longer chained. He assumed Yennefer had found the information she sought, otherwise she would likely be still prodding him for answers. As for Ciri, well, Ciri had an empire to rule, and couldn’t afford to waste time on an aging witcher. Geralt scratched his chin and found it freshly shaven.  _If anything, he was more disappointed that Triss was purposefully avoiding him_. The runic band strapped cleverly to his wrist was no doubt her handiwork, but how it got there was left to his imagination.

Perhaps it would be easier this way.  _For everyone._  He couldn’t blame Triss for his own indecisiveness; especially after that fateful night he helped her and her fellow mages escape Novigrad. Geralt was given his chance to stop her along the docks, but he didn't – more like: he couldn't. At the time, he been unsure of his feelings for both her and Yennefer, and it wouldn't have been fair to leave the flaming-redheaded sorceress with hopes that might never come true.

He rubbed circulation back into wrists that had been worn raw while he was unconscious, and noted that the red markings covering his body had been cleaned away. While the mysterious dark veining along his arm remained, it had faded even further. Though its origins had confused and concerned him, he was relieved to see the marks resolving so he could put them out of his mind.

Geralt pulled away from the bed and stretched his aching muscles. A fresh linen shirt lay close by and he tugged it on, followed by his studded jerkin, pants, and well-worn leather boots, all of which had been laundered and scented with cloves and citrus. With care, he slipped on his gauntlets, being especially mindful of how the left one lay over the enchanted bangle around his wrist. Finally, he walked to his silver and steel witcher swords, resting against a stone wall, and knelt to inspect them.

He partially unsheathed each to check its condition, noting that they had been sharpened, cleaned and oiled. Satisfied, the witcher snapped the blades back into their sheaths. Before he could swing them comfortably onto his back, he found that he had to loosen the straps holding his swords; Ciri likely had adjusted them for her smaller size. A faint smile found its way to his lips as he pulled open the buckle and expanded the belts five extra holes.  _How many times did he catch her at Kaer Morhen trying out the weight of real witcher blades? The tips of the swords dragging along the ground behind her. Ciri always got a stern scolding afterwards, but that never stopped the girl from doing so again, at least until she got her own._  Geralt gave the extravagant room one last quick look-over, his smile fading quickly.  _This was her world now, one of luxury and extravagance_. After making sure that there was no lingering trace of his presence, he left.

****

While he was mentally ready for the road, Geralt still had to find the rest of his belongings, if they even made it to the palace. The witcher inwardly groaned knowing that it meant chasing down answers from less-than-cooperative staff.

As he scoured the palace he began to feel it was a losing battle. Those that did not outright ignore the witcher were either too busy with their own tasks or had no clue pertaining to his belongings. A particularly uptight individual even spat at him, leaving Geralt ignorant of whatever he did to offend the man. Fortunately, Yennefer came to his rescue.

"I've made sure to send word to have your things waiting for you at the stables." She said.

"You read my mind?" Geralt didn’t mean to say it as harshly as he did, but all the mindless running about had worked up his nerves.

"Geralt, please. It doesn't take reading your mind to decipher that expression on your face.” Her violet eyes scanned him quickly from head to toe, taking in his practical style. “Not to mention the complaints I've received from the chamberlain about you traipsing about in your… less-than-appropriate attire."

"It's clean," Geralt felt obligated to point out, "and I'm leaving as soon as I'm able." He moved past her now that he had a destination in mind.

"Geralt…" Yennefer reached out and lightly touched his arm. "Do you have to go?" The posed question had been carefully stripped of any emotion.

He struggled with himself to try to find the appropriate words, and finally settling on, "You know I do."

"No I don't know. You'll need to clarify." Her grip tightened on his bicep. There was an underlying expression that he didn’t recognize, but it remained tight under her icy mask and he didn’t pursue it.

Instead, Geralt spun to face her, shaking off Yennefer’s touch. "What do you want from me Yen? We both tried the quiet life. We both tried living away from everything. It lasted, what… seven months… a year?" He exhaled sharply, frustrated that she would bother bringing it up again.

"Someone needed to be Ciri's advisor, and both of us agreed that Phillipa should be kept out of the court as long as possible."

"Yes, but it didn't have to be you. Triss-"

"If you can be bothered to remember, Triss is the current advisor to King Tancred Thyssen," She stated matter-of-factly, prodding his chest with a manicured finger.

Geralt brushed away her finger and crossed his arms. "What's a king compared to an empress?"

"Mages are still in a delicate state right now. Should we be shown throwing allegiances left and right there would be no end of problems. As it stood and still stands, I am the only one suitable to be her advisor," Yennefer said pointedly.

He scoffed, ignoring his medallion as it began to vibrate.

Yennefer furrowed her soft brows. "Don't go thinking that you were completely free of blame, Witcher," ire growing in her voice. "I can recall catching you more than once coming in at odd hours reeking of who knows what, only to find out that you took yet again  _another_  contract."

She got him there.  _He was a witcher, dammit_. A being created for the sole purpose of killing monsters. Try as he might to live as Geralt the Man and not the Witcher, he couldn't do it. He couldn't go against years of training, years of honed instincts, and years of sacrifice. Ironically, his long-sought-after peace turned out to be his hell.  _How could he tell Yennefer that? How could he make her understand?_  He couldn't. So instead he left, finally fed up with lying to himself and especially to Yennefer. Geralt even left behind his black mare after seeing how content the horse had grown to the stable hands' pampering at the vineyard. "Yen…"

"I don't want to hear it, Geralt. Especially when you've made up your mind already." Resigned, the sorceress pinched the bridge of her nose, and his medallion stilled. "Just make sure you're back in a week's time. By then we should have come up with a more permanent solution for your predicament. At the very least it would reassure Ciri that you’re all right."

"Mhm." Walking to the stables, Geralt stopped to look back at the raven-haired sorceress, a question still lingering on the back of his mind. "Yen?"

She sighed. "Yes?"

"How did Ciri know where I was?"

Yennefer shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze. "I gave her an amulet."

In typical Geralt fashion, he raised an eyebrow to encourage her to further elaborate.

There was a tremor on her lips as if she had been caught with a terrible secret. "It… it reacts when you've resigned yourself to death."

“Me specifically?” She nodded. Geralt remained quiet, lost in his thoughts. "And Ciri still has it?" Whether he meant them to or not, the witcher’s eyes narrowed.

The sorceress bit her lip before saying anything. "Yes." She turned to him, catching the minute flickers of different emotions playing out across his face.

Leather creaked as he tightened his fists. "I'll be back in a week." He resumed his gait, walking slightly faster than before.

"Geralt." Yennefer called after him.

Swinging open the heavy oak door, the witcher hesitated momentarily and then stepped outside, not bothering to catch the door as it slammed itself closed behind him.

The sorceress was left behind in the echoing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter is a little slow. I just really wanted to establish why Geralt and Yen split at the beginning of my story.


	8. Old Friends, Older Enemies

Geralt dredged the murky grey of his stew with the wooden spoon and brought a large chunk of lamb to his lips. Despite all appearances, the stew had proved edible. It was however, needlessly hot; which was more than he could say about his damp clothes.

Yet another drowner contract had pulled him to the coast of the Great Sea, and somehow every battle with the fish-like monsters left him soaked as he returned yet again to a local tavern drenched in the salty water. Not that Geralt had minded much. Nilfgaard had proven unbearably warm to the Nordling. He could almost say he was comfortable as the water evaporated off his skin.

It was a different story for his equipment. After the second time, the witcher had learned to leave his less-water-resistant equipment with Roach who had been more than happy to stay high and dry, away from the fighting.

The hefty barkeep topped his beer and sauntered off to attend to his other customers. Geralt's confused gaze followed the man in response to the attentive service.

Geralt was used to being ignored or to hostility or weak gratitude that was often forgotten as soon as he was out of sight. The strange welcome or indifference he now found in nearly every nearby town - large and small - struck him as odd. It wasn't as if the people were suffering for want of a witcher; the lack of decent contracts made that apparent.

He popped a piece of tender carrot into his mouth and took another swig of the bitter golden liquid, still half expecting a scowl or the odd glare from at least one of the other patrons sharing the hazy building. But he didn't receive a single one.

"This seat taken?"

Geralt looked up from his stew to inspect the hooded stranger. The elf was tall, with sharp features typical of his race. A heavy woolen cloak that would have made Geralt melt under the southern heat hung from his thin shoulders. "Not at all, though I'm hardly good company." The witcher mumbled around another spoonful of stew.

"Oh, I doubt that's true." The elf slid into the well-worn bench opposite the witcher and propped his wooden staff against the wall. Its gnarled head knocked against the window's frame, startling a sparrow from its roost in the dusty rafters.

"Mmn." Geralt shrugged and returned his attentions to the bowl in front of him, ignoring the loud guffaw from an intoxicated patron behind him.

Signaling the barkeep, the elf ordered a drink for himself. "Not many can say they met the famed Geralt of Rivia…" The elf mentioned casually as he watched the barkeep duck behind the bar to fetch a clean mug.

Geralt swallowed a mouthful of beer. "That so?" He sensed no animosity from the elf, yet there was something … _off_ , like a nervous tick in the back of his mind.

A mug of cider was set between them on the roughhewn tabletop and the elf dragged it towards his person. "The hospitality here is strange, don't you think?" The elf murmured before tentatively tasting his cider. It seemed to satisfy whatever expectations he had of it as he took another sip. "Or maybe I'm just too used to the misguided assumptions of the North."

"I can imagine." It wasn't until recently that non-humans were no longer persecuted in the streets of the Northern provinces, and even then relations were shaky.

"You seem mistaken. I was talking about how people seem to treat _you_ …"

"Ah. Guess I haven't noticed." Geralt said nonchalantly as he munched on what happened to have been a leek despite its brown coloring.

"Nothing? I'd have guessed these people are nearly beside themselves. The renowned white-haired witcher, and I might add, a fellow Nordling, having had rescued their Empress from the Wild Hunt. I've heard rumor that she's been giving the nobles a thing or two to think about already…"

The witcher eyed the elf, immediately deciding to move the topic away from Ciri. "For a Nordling, you're handling the heat well." Geralt pointed at the elf's cloak with the end of his spoon.

The elf brushed off of fleck of potato from his grey clad shoulder. "I've had it enchanted. It keeps me at a comfortable temperature regardless of the weather."

"Convenient." The witcher dropped the spoon in the now empty bowl with a clatter and pushed it to the edge of table for the barkeep to take away.

"Yes, well I imagine it's better than wading in sea water to cool off. It can't be good for your leathers." The elf steepled his fingers over his mug. Several polished silver rings adorned his long slender fingers and Geralt's medallion trembled ever so slightly in their proximity.

"It isn't, but not many of us can afford such luxuries." Geralt gave a lazy gesture to the elf's cloak again and sipped at his beer. Depending on where the conversation goes he may have to abandon the brew. _A damn shame. It was rather good._ He took another gulp.

"Indeed… How are you to earning some coin?"

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "You have a contract for me? Most folk just post something on the notice board, and hope I get around to looking at it."

"Yes, well. My want of you- your skill is of a more discrete nature than the usual."

The elf's slip of the tongue was… _interesting_. _Dangerous, but interesting_. "Sadly, I have no need of coin at the moment." It was a small lie, as Geralt was somehow always short of coin, but the nagging feeling he had felt earlier just wouldn't go away.

Tension filled the space they occupied, hanging heavy around the pair. The elf swirled the contents of his nearly full mug as if contemplating something in its depths. "You are a surprisingly hard man to track…"

Geralt's wolf pendant rattled harder against its chain as the elf swished a finger. The few patrons the single-storied tavern had attracted sat up and left, all suddenly apprehensive about something. A particularly eager man nearly tripped over his own feet to get out of the building first. _Neat trick_ , the witcher mused. "I generally don't expect to be followed, so excuse me for not leaving out any breadcrumbs…"

The humor seemed to be completely lost on the elf as a predatory expression twisted his thin lips.

The witcher stood, leaving the last few swigs of his drink despite himself.

The elf noticed Geralt's anxiousness and reached into his cloak. "Let me get your tab…" He dropped a hefty pouch on the table, filled with enough florens to buy the bar twice over. "It's a pity, but I did have the coin to pay you. My associates had been certain that you would come willingly for the right amount."

The baffled barkeeper's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and a shared look was exchanged between elf and man. The barkeep balked, but he quickly gathered his wits, and the pouch in a meaty hand, before making for the backdoor. In the man's hast an indignant yelp was heard, presumably from the child that had been peering in earlier as the witcher no longer saw the dark-haired boy.

A voice erupted in the witcher's head no longer urging him to run but commanding. He aptly ignored it. Geralt's hand went for his blade, as the elf grabbed his staff. "Witcher, I hope you are as good as they say you are."

Before the witcher had the chance to draw his steel, he was hit in the chest with a wall of air. The force blew him clear of the bench he had been using and into the table set out behind him. His legs clipped the table's edge and it tumbled with him, his head slamming hard into the packed earth. Despite casting Quen in the brief moments earlier, his vision flashed white.

In a fluid movement, the witcher stretched a hand behind his head to touch the ground, using it for support to simultaneously draw his blade and somersault backwards to his feet. He stood, gaining a small nod of approval from the elf.

Geralt readied himself for the next attack. In dealing with a mage, he couldn't risk getting careless.

The elf sent out another wave with a motion of his hand. The blast scattering dishes and tankards as it traveled towards the witcher. The witcher countered it with Aard. Kinetic energies collided, smashing nearby bottles and splintering wood. Geralt didn't bother to wipe the away the droplets of cherry cordial that had splashed on him as he rapidly closed the distance between himself and the elf.

The witcher swung his sword. The elf parried the blow with his staff, the wood hissing as the Dazhbog runes on Geralt's sword scorched the wooden surface. Fueled by adrenaline, Geralt pressed his attack. He struck again and again, forcing the elf back.

Tired of defending against the witcher's relentless attacks, the elf stamped his heel into the ground. The earth shook and braided roots shot up between them.

Not wanting to get caught up in the tangled mass of wood, the witcher backed up.

Tendrils weaved through the air, slamming down where Geralt had been moments earlier. An unbroken bottle wobbled away from Geralt's step, its alcoholic contents sloshing up its sides. The witcher grabbed the bottle as he rolled away from another wooden tendril.

With a well-aimed lob, the bottle smashed, drenching the wood. Fire erupted from the witcher's palm as his fingers formed the Igni sign. The flames devoured the alcohol, quickly turning towards the wood beneath. The tendrils flailed as the main bulk shrieked and quivered against the consuming heat. Geralt dodged a flaming root as it ploughed through the wall beside him.

He had misjudged how fast the flames would spread from enchanted roots to the dry wooden tavern. Embers floated through the smoky air, and the witcher knew the building would not last much longer. Smoke stung his sensitive senses as he searched for an exit. He coughed involuntarily, his body demanding fresh air, _and soon_. Geralt had yet to see the elf emerge from the burning mass of writhing roots. He dashed towards an open window.

"Where do you think you're going?" The elf's voice was strangely calm as it rang out over the fire's roar.

The witcher had only a breath of clean air before something tangled around his ankle and dragged him back into the inferno. As his body smacked into the floor, Geralt moved his sword to hack at the burning root. He cleaved it in another two strokes and fought off the additional roots that swarmed his person in its place.

The smoke cleared as the elf approached, allowing the witcher to observe that the elf had remained virtually untouched. The only indication that the flames had bothered him was shown in how the elf regarded the black soot that clung to his cloak.

The lingering smoke clouded Geralt's vision as he pulled himself to his feet. Sweat ran down his back, and strands of white hair clung to the perspiration on his face. He was beyond hot now, and the longer he stayed in the building burning down around him, the worse it was going to get.

He watched the elf move closer. The elf's rowan staff tapping the ground in time with his steps. A board fell from the roof sending up a cloud of ash and sparks. The elf regarded it with disdain and stamped his staff twice against the earth. His rings glowed faintly as icy spirals snaked out from the staff's base freezing everything they touched.

The fire died around them with a squeal and a pop as everything besides the witcher and elf was encased in a crystalline cold. _At least I don't need to worry about the heat anymore_ , Geralt thought with a grimace. By now it was clear that this was no ordinary sorcerer. The rings obviously boosted the elf's innate magic ability, but so many grand scale spells in quick succession would have been difficult for a group of mages, let alone one.

Geralt shook off the ice that had crept up the burned leather of his boots. The last thing he wanted was for his feet to freeze in place. The witcher held his steel sword out in front, and despite the recent exertions his two-handed hold was steady.

The elf prepared for another spell, as Geralt readied abused muscles. A magpie landing on a blackened window drew the elf's notice. The witcher cast the bird only a moment's glance before something inside Geralt spurred him towards his distracted opponent.

All it took was a look in his direction. "Time's up." The elf whispered. A wall of kinetic energy struck the witcher and launched him backwards through the weakened wall of the tavern. Ice and wood snapped and the roof came crashing down, trapping him under a pile of burnt out debris.

Screams from bystanders hurt the witcher's ears as he strained against the weight holding him down. Geralt had only managed to move a small section before the elf was upon him again. The witcher slashed out with his freed arm, catching the clasp holding the elf's cloak. The enchanted fabric fluttered to the ground, taking the elf's smirk with it. But before Geralt could lash out at the elf again, the witcher's sword was knocked from his fingers with a sharp smack. The blade clattered to the cracked earth as the elf's foot ground the witcher's arm into the dirt.

"Is this the warrior you chose Cregennan?" The words were in Elder Speech, but Geralt seemed to be able to understand them as clearly as if the elf was speaking Common tongue. "Is this the man you hoped would save you from us?" The thing inside him seemed to squirm uncomfortably at the elf's words, but the witcher merely glowered. "No… you merely wanted his form. To once more have flesh…" Roots erupted from the ground replacing the elf's foot as they wrapped around the witcher's arm. The elf bent down and plucked the glove from Geralt's pinned arm, revealing the bangle Triss had placed there.

Geralt clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to will the strength into his arm to rip it free from its bindings. The roots strained under his efforts, but ultimately remained intact.

"Then let me grant that desire…" The elf grasped the bangle in his slender hands, and tore it from the witcher's wrist. Clay beads clattered to the earth as pain bloomed in Geralt's hand. Black bands wound up his arm, and for once a look of concern crossed the elf's features before twisting into one of anger. The magpie squawked loudly as it landed atop the elf's staff.

The witcher winced and grunted, trying everything he could to not reveal how much agony he was truly in. But despite his pain, there was another feeling he recognized. Geralt remembered the feeling of possession all too clearly. He fought against the invading soul whilst his physical body writhed in unimaginable torment. Amid it all, a voice reached out to him. " _Witcher… Witcher, please… you must trust me… let me in…_ " The voice begged. " _We… we don't have… much… time…"_

A portal opened behind the witcher's head. Where it led to, only the elf knew the answer. " _Please, Witcher…_ " More roots sprang up around him and started pulling the wreckage free, only to replace what was removed with more of the wooden bindings. _Dammit_. Geralt thought. _Dammit. Dammit. Dammit._ He couldn't fight on two fronts, and the pain was making it hard to focus even if he could. In a pride-wrenching decision, the witcher relented.

* * *

Cregennan felt the witcher relinquish control of his body. The pain was as unbearable as he remembered it to be, but he had to act quickly. If Skj'aera wanted to bring them through the portal the elf would first have to remove the bindings. It would be in that moment that Cregennan would act.

The roots slackened, and Cregennan jumped at his opportunity. Pushing past the agony he willed the witcher's body forwards and yanked the remnants of the bangle from Skj'aera grasp. Never stopping for a moment, Cregennan turned to the portal and bent his fingers. For the first time the witcher cast a spell more complex than any of his signs and altered the portal's destination. Skj'aera howled and made a motion with his staff, but Cregannan knew that regardless of the injuries the witcher had sustained, the witcher's movements were still faster.

He launched himself at the portal and disappeared through it, leaving the elf roaring with frustration as the portal shut between them.

****

Cregennan crashed into the table that appeared beneath him, and it shattered under the impact. The air rushed from his lungs and he almost dropped the bangle. _Not his most graceful of landings_ , but he had gotten away. It would take some time for Skj'aera to discover where the redirected portal had sent them. Even Cregennan didn't know for sure, as it had ultimately been the witcher who had made the decision where they would end up. All Cregennan knew - and cared about - was that it was safe.

The pain had lessened somewhat, but he also found it more difficult to focus, the witcher fighting him once more for control. "Not… yet. Not yet…" Cregennan wheezed. He clutched the bangle to his wrist and squeezed. It had been as Skj'aera had said, though the witcher's body was not the salvation Cregennan had hoped it to be. The spell he cast to transform it into his own flesh would kill the both of them if he left it as things were. He didn't have the ability nor the strength anymore to stop the transformation on his own. _Fortunately, the witcher was not completely without magic_. Although Cregennan didn't have access to his full power without his own form, his true form, the body he currently occupied did have access to fundamentals. In combination with the bangle's remaining magic, it would have to do.

Fire flowed from his palm, igniting the runes etched into the clay beads. He grunted as the heat seared into the witcher's flesh. Cregennan felt consciousness slipping from his grasp as the magic began working. "Just a little more…" His hand wavered as the semi-circle of runes finished burning into the witcher's wrist. The runes glowed once more before fading into red scars. He smiled as his work completed and his hand and control slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skj'aera -> Skjæra (Norwegian) for Magpie
> 
> Sorry I'm not very creative with names.


	9. Preparations and Meditation

When the witcher woke, he was in dire need of a strong drink. He groaned, still not willing to open his eyes. Every single one of his newly acquired bruises made sure to let him know they were there, and even his old injuries added to the all-encompassing ache. Geralt’s only reprieve came from the small knowledge that the pain in his arm had lessened to a dull throb. The witcher didn’t know how well he could trust this _Cregennan_ , but the spirit had managed to help – though Geralt could have done without the runic burns now permanently adorning his left wrist.

The wind whistled through the cracks amid Kaer Morhen's fortress walls. Its halls empty save for himself, at least until the coming winter when Eskel and Lambert would hopefully return. Geralt lay there, eyes closed amid the broken fragments of a wooden table and the scattered remains of what had laid upon its rough surface: paper, books, and cracked clay jars whose powdered contents smelled fiercely of sulfur. He groaned. Yennefer wasn’t going to be happy. Even if he still had his horse, there was no way he was going to make it from the Blue Mountains back to the Nilfgaardian capital within his given week.  _Especially, since its end was noon tomorrow._

A startled lark chirped angrily from its nest amid the crumbled ruins of an ancient windowsill high above.

Its shrill cry eventually moved Geralt from his rather uncomfortable spot and into the kitchen adjacent to the grand hall where he had appeared.

He scavenged the kitchen’s nearly barren pantries, finding only a small bottle of White Gull. The mildly hallucinogenic alcohol would do. Geralt leaned up against the long wooden bench that ran across the kitchen’s center, not caring to put in the extra effort to sit down at it properly, and uncorked the strong-smelling witcher concoction. The liquid burned as it went down his throat, but left behind a pleasant tingling sensation. He took another draught, and mulled it over in his mouth before swallowing.

Geralt would have to replace his steel sword, not to mention what he had left in Roach's saddle bags. Fortunately, Kaer Morhen and its surrounding mountain sides was a good place to do so. " _Sorry_." A voice whispered in his head. The bottle in hand halted its progress to the witcher's lips. He looked around the sparsely equipped kitchen, half expecting to see the ghostly visage of who had spoken.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?" Geralt addressed the empty room. The witcher waited, drinking more of the White Gull, but seemed to have gotten no response, at least not immediately.

“ _It is… harder… to speak to you through the enchantment… than I had anticipated…_ ” The voice was breathy as if its owner had just run a marathon.

Slightly annoyed at the burning sensation that had started there, Geralt’s eyes drifted to the marks now glowing on his wrist. “What did you do?”

“ _Only what I had to…_ ”

"Which is?" Pressed the witcher. Harsh experience had taught Geralt to wary of mages, and to have one literally in his head was even worse.

" _I understand your… distrust. But I… assure you that I only did what I had to, to keep… us alive…_ "

 _You mean, you only did what you could to keep yourself alive_. The witcher thought bitterly.  _I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you_.

Geralt didn't know if the spirit could hear his thoughts, but judging from the silence that followed, he suspected Cregennan could.

" _Yes. It is my fault… that you are now… involved,_ " came Cregennan's eventual reply.

"What was supposed to happen? The elf said you were trying to take my body…?" Geralt finished the last bitter drops of the White Gull and placed the empty glass bottle on the table beside him.

“ _That had… been… my intent…_ ”

The witcher crossed his arms over his chest. “What changed?”

“ _I… had not anticipated… that I would be… discovered by a witcher… I had assumed you to be… merely a bandit. My mistake… had been to cast a… polymorph spell… to turn your body into… mine as you struck the Saov Llestr…_ ”

“And that caused those black marks.”

“ _Yes. The spell’s… progression… is too slow. My form has… proven… to not have… the resistance necessary to compensate…_ ”

Geralt looked at his arm again. Faded black marks stained its flesh, and he understood. The screams of children, long since dead, filled his ears. Each child eventually silenced as the witchers’ secret mutagens claimed their brief lives. Out of the ten children who had begun the witcher training, he had been one of the lucky three who had survived the final trials.

"Why not move to another host?" The witcher didn’t wish the spirit on another, but he was nothing if not curious as to why the spirit continued to remain.

Cregennan seemed to laugh, though it was nothing more than a hollow echo. “ _That would… have been easier, yes… but I fear I had naught… the opportunity. I was disoriented… when I first gained… control. And your sorceresses… only further… muted my… influence with their magic…_ ”

“And now?”

“ _The… runes I burned into your… flesh to halt the… transformative process, prevents me… from garnering enough of my… self… to depart.”_

“Then I’m stuck with you.”

“ _An unfortunate… side effect, but… Yes._ ”

 _Great_. Geralt wiped his hand down his face, from temples to chin, and sighed. "What of your elf friend?"

" _Skj'aera… is hardly my… ally, nor is he yours… especially… after the… humiliation you've dealt… him. He… will follow us. It is… only a matter of time… before he traces where… the portal sent us._ "

“Then we face him.”

“ _Foolish. You'd only be−_ ” Cregennan’s voice trickled away, and with it went the runes’ glow and the burning sensation from around Geralt’s wrist.

“Cregennan?” Geralt asked the empty air. Regardless of how long he waited there was no answer. The presence he had felt was gone.

Once again, Geralt was left with his own thoughts. Mostly he doubted how much he could actually trust Cregennan. Something just didn’t seem to fit. If it truly was Cregennan’s will that drove the metal sphere he had found over a week now, then _why had he tried to and nearly succeed in killing the witcher?_ Absentmindedly, he touched the healing scar that covered his right shoulder.

Geralt didn’t completely buy Cregennan mistaking him for a bandit. Even if Cregennan had, once Geralt used his magic it would have been clear that he wasn’t. If anything he would have been mistaken for… _a sorcerer. An elven sorcerer. Dammit. What has he gotten himself into?_ Cregennan _must have_  been trying to kill him, and using magic just aggravated the spirit further during his battle.

But another question remained. _Why did Cregennan change his mind and try to meld with Geralt instead?_

Pushing away from the kitchen’s table, he headed back into the hall, trying to ignore the lark that had started trilling at him again. The noise stopped when the witcher cast Aard in the bird's general direction. After shaking out its ruffled feathers, it looked at him rather indignantly and settled quietly back into its nest.

Geralt knelt beside the large trunk where he kept the various gear he acquired while traveling the Path. He pawed past the assortment of monster trophies, trinkets, runestones, and armor, eventually getting to the ever-growing collection of swords stored along the trunk’s bottom. His hands closed around the only sabre in the box. The sword's previous owner had called it Iris, and Geralt – never good at naming things – kept the name as is.

He drew the sabre from its sheath and inspected its razor edge. It was strangely unmarred by its time in the chest, and a peculiar numbness radiated from the blade, deadening feeling in the fingers that held it. The sabre was a hungry one, and even through the thick leather of his glove the witcher could feel it trying to draw on his vitality to enhance its own strength. The once immortal Olgierd might have at one time had plenty of life to feed it, but Geralt was only mortal, and as such, chose to store the enchanted blade safely away. Using the blade was a gamble, but its added power may prove to be the winning factor in his inevitable confrontation.

Geralt did not share Cregennan’s fear of Skj'aera, and while the witcher hated to admit it, earlier he had been caught unprepared. He was not going to let happen again. Now, in this peaceful lull, was the time to ready for the coming battle. It was time to oil his blades. To brew potions that could be drunk on a moment’s notice which would heal or temporarily enhance his nearly superhuman abilities. He would face this just as he would for any other challenge, and he would face it alone.

The witcher removed the empty scabbard from his back and tossed it to the side; replacing it instead with the sabre's open-ended sheath. He stood and slid the sabre into place, where it settled into the sheath with an angry snap. The sabre’s draining ability stifled by the metal and leather now encasing it.

He turned his attention towards the broken table he had arrived on, and the surrounding wooden shelves lined with the preserved ingredients Geralt would need for various potions he would be concocting. He grabbed a handful of empty vials and pulled several clay jars from their spots, setting them aside on an intact table nearby.

The witcher needed Dwarven Spirits, and lots of the vibrant green alcohol to act as a base for the potions he was to brew.

Despite Geralt’s earlier fruitless search of the kitchen, searching through Eskel’s own chest bore at least meager results. The less than ideal amount of Dwarven Spirit meant the witcher had to prioritize the potions he had initially thought of preparing.

Geralt scratched at the stubble on his chin and finally decided on Blizzard, Swallow, and the Forktail Decoction. While tempted to create Tawny Owl to boost his stamina, the potential concentration of toxins in his system could prove fatal and without excess Spirit to create the neutralizing potion, White Honey, it wasn’t worth the trade off. Hopefully, the reflex-enhancing Blizzard potion would make the stamina he had for the fight last.

He started a fire in the large pit shared between the kitchen and the grand hall and set three small pots to warm at its edge. With a mortar and pestle he ground down the individual ingredients. For Blizzard: the large white myrtle petals and the stone-like golem's heart. For Swallow: the vibrant yellow celandine flowers, and dried Drowner brain. And for the Forktail Decoction: the orange tight-clustered flowers of Moley arrow, Bryonia stems, and the namesake Forktail mutagen that Geralt had acquired personally from the 'dragon' contract he took up on the Skellige Isles. He distributed the respective collections of ingredients into the three pots, topping each with what was left of the Dwarven Spirit.

The potions would need to boil for an hour, giving Geralt time to raid the ruined mess of the fortress’s armory. He didn’t have time to construct the bombs he wanted, but hopefully a few remained among the wreckage.

The last time any thought had been given towards clearing the rubble was when the witchers’ were under siege from the Wild Hunt, and even then the final decision had been to instead strengthen the crumbling walls. The witcher sighed when he finally reached it because the armory had fallen further into a worse state than Geralt remembered.

Brown rats scurried underfoot, and a dozen eyes watched him from the crevices formed by the fallen stone and broken shelving. A crate lay unmolested from the ceiling’s collapse, yet was nearly unreachable thanks to a gaping hole leading to the main floor below. Knowing his luck, it likely contained what he was looking for. Geralt cleared a small path to the edge of the hole, and lined himself up with the far wall. His muscles tensed then released as he rushed towards the empty space.

It occurred to him that the ancient wood, in dire need of repair, might not hold his weight. But Geralt didn’t have much time to ponder as he soared over the gap. The floorboards groaned then snapped, the wood unable to withstand the shock of his landing. His hands shot out, finding purchase on a large support beam, his arms snapping taut. The beam bowed and creaked, but ultimately held his weight. The witcher breathed, “I’m getting too old for this,” and hauled himself back up.

Tentatively, Geralt edged towards the crate, pausing occasionally when the floor threatened to break under him. Using the edge of his hunting knife, the witcher pried up the crate’s nailed-on lid. Pushing aside the straw, he found what he was looking for. Several varieties of explosives had been carefully packed together. He found several grapeshot bombs, a dimeritium bomb and a Northern Wind. He had expected the shrapnel filled Grapeshot, but the magic blocking Dimeritium and the freezing Northern Wind had been a pleasant surprise. Now came the issue of getting them across the gap. Tossing the box across wasn’t an option, and the thought of leaping over with somewhat sensitive bombs in his pockets didn’t strike him as a good option either.

Scratching by his ear caught his attention. The quivering whiskers of a mouse poked through the gap in the masonry, and Geralt found his answer. On this side of the wall he wouldn’t have to worry about the ceiling collapsing on him if he used Aard to break the wall – there wasn’t much left to fall on him. He formed the sign and the kinetic force blew out the loose stonework. Distraught squeaks fell on deaf ears as the witcher stepped over the rubble with his cargo in hand.

He returned to the hall where the potions were coming to a slow boil. Setting the box down a safe distance from the spitting fire, Geralt returned to the potions. With iron tongs he pulled the pots away and set them down on the floor. He watched the mixtures cool, eventually corking the contents in small glass vials that he tucked into loops stitched into the lining of his jerkin. The bombs he placed into specialized pockets, two along each hip. The extra Grapeshot bombs that he had no room for, he left nestled on top of the straw for easier retrieval later. The witcher was as prepared as he was going to be, and he hoped it would be enough.

For the time being, he would not sleep, at least not fully. In their brief conversation, Cregennan had given Geralt no indication of how much time they had, but from the spirit's urgency it could be anywhere from mere hours to a few days before they were tracked to the witcher’s fortress. Geralt would wait, more specifically, meditate. It would leave him in a waking sleep allowing him to react at any sign of his surroundings changing, but still preserving his energies. The witcher knelt against the stone floor, feeling the dwindling fire against his back. He closed his eyes and waited, allowing his mind to drift.

* * *

Cregennan opened his eyes, and stood stiffly. His control over the witcher's body had been lessened somewhat by the runes. He had been forced to wait for the witcher's consciousness to lessen, and as much as the magic at work was preventing both his and the witcher's mutual destruction, their continued hindering effects were proving to be a nuisance.  Like what happened earlier, any attempts the spirit made to displace the witcher otherwise had proven impossible and left him completely drained.

The spirit shook his borrowed head. So much more was at stake than just the witcher’s pride. If Skj’aera came alone, the witcher may have been able to fight toe to toe, possibly even win. But Skj’aera wouldn’t be coming at them alone, not after his previous failure. For now, while Cregennan had control, they would flee. For the sake of all humans past, present, and future, he must not be caught.


	10. Traveling Arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that by the beginning of Witcher 3, Kaedwen became part of Redania… it’s just easier to refer to Kaedwen as the Eastern section as that’s what shows up when people Google it. If it bugs you… sorry.

Yennefer paced the decorated room, biting the edges of her thumb nail.

"Yennefer, you're going to wear a hole in the floor." Keira teased from a nearby lounger, though she shared a similar concern. Lambert had yet to arrive as well.

The raven-haired sorceress leaned up against the nearby windowsill, her nose mere wisps from the glass. "I can't help it. Ciri hasn't been sleeping well since he left. I'm worried about her."

"Worried about her, or worried about _him_? Is Ciri really the _only_ one who hasn't been sleeping well?"

Yennefer cast a glance over her shoulder to the lazing woman. The raven-haired sorceress' expression spoke volumes, but Yennefer would never share how she truly felt. She was much too prideful for that.

Both Keira and Yennefer had been present when Geralt's riderless horse had been found a day's journey from the palace. Its implications were nothing but grim, and as such, were never revealed to the young empress. The secrecy was beginning to eat away at the sorceresses.

"If only there was some way to contact him… so I could let Ciri know he's alright." Yennefer quickly added.

Keira narrowed her eyes in thought. _There should be some way to contact… Ah, yes._ It had completely slipped her mind. The other half of her Xenovox. She had lent it to the witcher while Geralt was running an errand for her, and since she had little time to think of it during her elopement with Lambert. _Now, if he only still has it on his person_ …

She stood and rushed down the halls to her guest suite returning with the little metal box in hand. "It's not a sure thing, but I did give Geralt the other half to this." Keira offered the Xenovox to Yennefer, whose eyes widened in response.

"Is this a Xenovox?" There was admiration in the raven-haired sorceress' voice as she turned the artifact over in her hands.

"Indeed," Keira said somewhat pleased with herself. "But we won't know if Geralt is carrying the receiving piece until we test it."

* * *

"Geralt? Hey Geralt, wake up." The witcher started awake as a rush of cold water dribbled down his chin, and he fell from the charcoal-grey horse he'd been slung over. He landed gracelessly on his backside and peered up through the waking haze at Lambert's usual cheeky grin.

He sat up rubbing the last of the sleep and water from his eyes and scrunching up his forehead. "Where? What happened…?" Geralt asked, stretching out his back with a pop. His whole body ached and it wasn't just from the short fall to the dusty road.

"That's what we'd all like to know."

"We?" Geralt looked around, and saw no one for miles save for Lambert and his horse.

"It's for you." Lambert passed him a small metal box with a pair of brass lips embossed on its surface. "Damned thing wouldn't stop yammering at me until I agreed to wake you up."

Geralt recognized the Xenovox he had received long ago from Keira, and dreaded what, or who, waited on its other end. "What are you doing in Kaedwen!" The device exclaimed, the voice sounding very much like Yennefer's. "How on earth did you get that far north?"

"Portal." He answered. Frankly, _he_ was surprised at how far _south_ he was as the Blue Mountains that cradled Kaer Morhen were no longer in sight. The witcher could make a guess that Cregennan was somehow behind it. _It would explain his aching limbs at the least_.

There was a brief pause. "You hate traveling by portal, why would…?"

"Not my idea."

"Then who's?" Yennefer asked with growing impatience, likely due to Geralt's usual lacking responses.

"Cregennan's."

Again, his response was followed by silence. Lambert raised an eyebrow at the conversation, and Geralt moved off the road and into the brush for some privacy.

"He's talking to you?"

"Mhm. A few things happened." His wrist had started burning faintly beneath his replaced greave and the witcher knew Cregennan was listening in.

"Does it have anything to do with the tavern that burned down?"

"No." Geralt got himself into this mess, he sure as hell wasn't going to get Yennefer involved.

" _Tell her._ " Cregennan's voice chastised him. " _We need all the allies we can get! You cannot face **them** on your own."_

 _Care to finally share what I'm up against?_ Geralt thought. It had been the first time that Cregennan had indicated that there was a group after them, not just Skj'aera.

Cregennan whispered, " _Not yet,"_ before growing quiet once more.

"Please don't lie to me Geralt." Sighed Yennefer, unaware of the brief conversation between him and Cregennan.

"I'm not."

"Then why do witnesses to the burning say they saw the _White Wolf_ talking with a cloaked stranger before the tavern erupted into flames?" The volume of Yennefer's voice rose, and Geralt had to move the Xenovox away from his sensitive ear.

 _Dammit_.

When Geralt didn't respond, she asked a different question. "What. Happened. Geralt?" Yennefer made sure to punctuate each word to translate her frustrations.

"Nothing, Yen. Nothing happened."

"Nothing doesn't burn down a building." She replied. "And it _doesn't_ send _you_ running through a portal."

"I wasn't the one who ran." He stated, his pride somewhat hurt from her implication. In the momentary silence that followed, Geralt realized his slip in words and cursed himself under his breath.

"Cregennan did…" Came Yennefer's voice. "How did he get control of your body?"

"Things happened."

"Geralt, you're being evasive. Just tell me what's going on."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't." She accused.

He had to pause, but Yennefer seemed to understand despite not receiving his answer.

"At least come back. You've been gone for nearly two weeks."

Again, he paused. Not wanting to give an answer Yennefer didn't want to hear.

Geralt could almost hear the way her brows knit together, and her hand on her temple as Yennefer tried to remain calm. "You can be so infuriating."

"I know."

"Geralt…?" Her voice was barely a tickle and he had to put the box up to his ear just to make out his name.

"Ye…" He felt the sleep spell more than heard it. It was soft as a kiss and caressed his consciousness to unconsciousness. His knees buckled and he fell, the Xenovox tumbling from his hand.

The last thing he heard was Yennefer's voice. "Cregennan, if you are our ally, bring him back to us."

* * *

Meanwhile, Lambert spent his time leaning against a young oak, watching the wispy clouds float by so carefree. His thoughts drifted back to how he found Geralt and his unlikely tag-along, and he could only shake his head at the mess the older witcher had gotten himself into.

****

Lambert eased his horse onwards, pushing past the groping branches of the thick foliage surrounding the pair. He was on his way to Kaer Morhen to see if there were any records of previous regressions to the witcher elixirs. Surely, Kiera could forgive him for the extended detour.

His ears pricked to the sounds of panting and branches braking. He was not as alone as he thought he was.

A flash of white amid the greenery. He followed it with his eyes for a few more brief seconds and then dismounted, dropping the reins to the dirt. No one else should be this deep into the forest, at least no one who wasn't a witcher. His thoughts drifted to the possibility that he was tailing Geralt, but _how did he get here from Nilfgaard_? He drew his steel blade, just to be on the safe side.

The figure ahead of him stopped, a hand clutched tightly to his heaving chest. It _was_ Geralt.

"Geralt!" Lambert called. The man froze, his breathing paused as he turned to face Lambert. There was no recognition in his face. "Geralt?" The white-haired man saw the sword in Lambert's hand and shot off deeper into the woods. "Damn." Lambert swore, sheathing his blade and chasing after the departing form.

On even ground, Geralt had always been faster, and Lambert was worried he'd soon lose sight of the other witcher. But, despite the hours spent on horseback, Lambert was gaining on the exhausted man. The man stumbled on a protruding root, obviously unused to the surrounding area, and doubt entered Lambert's mind on who he was actually running after.

The chase ended at a cliff. It was too late for the man to stop when he finally spotted it. His footing crumbled with the dry earth and he was sent tumbling down the hill's side. Lambert leaned over the edge, mindful of his own footing, and peered down. The man was sprawled on his back looking up at him with piercing golden eyes. Lambert slid down, loose dirt and gravel sliding along with him. The white-haired man dragged himself from Lambert's approach, but was stopped when his back bumped into a tree. Fear was in the man's eyes, an expression that did not belong on Geralt's face. Somehow, it irritated Lambert that he was the source of it.

"Change, Doppler!" Lambert commanded, striking the tree just above the imposter's head. The tree shuddered under the blow, sending a scattering of green leaves to fall atop the pair.

The man stood shakily, and Lambert stepped back allow him some breathing room. The man coughed, still very winded from his previous exertions. "I am no doppler." Despite the stranger's voice sharing Geralt's same timbre, he spoke with an accent that was foreign to the common speech.

"Yet you wear my friend's face…" Growled Lambert, his hand once more twitching towards his blade.

The man saw this, and spoke quickly. "If you harm me, you also harm him!"

Lambert slammed the imposter against the tree, his arm pressing into the man's neck. "Explain!"

There was a hesitation in the man's golden eyes as he struggled to swallow. "I am a spirit… "

"Then I simply will exorcise you." Lambert pressed harder, ignoring the hands clutching at his arm trying vainly to shift it.

"That would be diffi−" A spasm interrupted the man's words and he grabbed Lambert's shoulders with unbelievable strength. "Please, I implore you, there is no time for this. You must bring him away from here… Return him… to… the raven-haired sorceress… Return him to Yennefer." As the last word trickled from his chapped lips, the man's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped into Lambert. Unprepared for the sudden burden, Lambert stumbled back.

An explosion sounded in the direction of Kaer Morhen, and a frown slipped to Lambert's face. It seemed for the moment he had no choice but to believe the spirit's words and the direness of the situation.

With some difficulty, he managed to get Geralt over his shoulders and headed back to where he left his horse. "You're a heavy bastard."

It would be several the hours later, via the Xenovox procured from one of Geralt's many pouches, that Yennefer verified the spirit's claims.

****

Lambert heard the thud as Geralt's body once more hit the dirt, no doubt because of the spell Yennefer said she would have to cast if the conversation didn't go as planned. He pulled himself from the sapling. It shuddered upright without Lambert's weight pressing upon it.

As Lambert was pulling back the branches of the large bush Geralt had stepped behind, he was half expecting to need to chase after the spirit who would no doubt be in charge of Geralt's body once again. He didn't have to, however, the spirit seemed content to wait for him.

"So…" Lambert grunted, helping the man to his feet. "Who are you really?"

"Do names mean so much to you people?" The man asked, brushing dust from his front and fetching the Xenovox that had grown silent.

"I'd just like to know the names of those who possess my friends so I know who's grave to stomp on later." Lambert sneered.

"Little chance of that…" The spirit grew solemn. "But I concede. I am Cregennan of Lod." Cregennan offered his hand to Lambert, and the two men shook. "It would be for the best that you do not refer to me as such in others' company however."

"That have anything to do with the explosion at Kaer Morhen?"

Cregennan opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed his mouth again.

"Your poker face is as bad as Geralt's."

"It would make sense. This is Geralt's face." The spirit nodded his agreement.

"Not quite what I meant…" Lambert exhaled and put his hands behind his head. "So what made you pass out back there?"

Again, Lambert's question was met with silence.

"Look don't answer if you don't want to, but it's a long walk back to Nilfgaard from here, and if you don't want whoever's chasing you to catch up, I suggest you start answering." Lambert wasn't about to leave Geralt behind, but he wasn't going to tell the spirit that.

The spirit quickly weighed the options presented to him. "I had used the primitive Axii sign on myself to knock myself unconscious for when my pursuers finally followed me. With luck they would have been unable to detect my presence and just pass me by. It was merely a fortuitous accident that one of Geralt's allies happened upon me in my flight."

"Hmmm…" Cregennan's reference to the witcher's sign indicated that he was likely a sorcerer while alive. The mages Lambert knew often mocked the witcher's for their simple magic, and Lambert wondered if Cregennan was aware of the information he inadvertently passed the witcher. "And what of Geralt in this plan of yours. What would have happened if he woke?"

"I had hoped he would see sense and flee with the destruction of the fortress…"

"So you caused the explosion?"

"Indirectly, yes. The explosives were triggered by the influx of magic as they teleported in." It must have been the expression on Lambert's face, but Cregennan paused briefly. "I have to apologize; it seems that that place had been your home."

Lambert was caught unprepared by Cregennan's apology. He ran a hand through his hair and headed back in the direction of the horse waiting on the road. "Don't worry about it." He waved dismissively. "It hasn't been one in a while. Not since…" _Not since Vesemir died_. "No. Never mind. You're in a hurry right?"

"Yes."

"We'll stop by the Garin Estate, just a ways past Brunwich. Geralt once told me someone there owes him a favor. Hopefully that includes getting another mount. 'Till then though…" Lambert scratched his head, no better ideas coming to mind. "I guess we're sharing a saddle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and I'll just let you guys imagine how Geralt and Lambert shared a saddle...


	11. Living Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to those that have left comments in the last while… though I don’t always get directly back to you guys, it really means a lot to me that other people are enjoying this story, so thanks to anyone who left kudos as well.

_Bound. Hemp rope tied too tight, cutting off circulation. Body, bruised and battered from struggling. Waning in and out of consciousness. Can’t focus._

_A strike knocks him in the head, sending him sprawling in the dirt. "Open it! Open the gateway!" A voice demands. But he can't. He mustn't. It would mean the end of everything._

_Blood trickles from his nose, filling his senses with copper. He lies still, unmoving, barely even breathing. He earns another kick to the stomach, rewarding his captor with a stifled groan._

_"Still stubborn." The voice sounds almost admirable. "No matter. Bring her."_

_He sees her and it pains him. Lovely ashen hair, now matted with grime. Her ever-so-brilliant emerald eyes peering through rings of purple bruising. She tries to pull from her captors, but she too has been bound. "Lara." He whispers despite the agony it brings his parched throat. She smiles, trying to be brave for him, but cries out when her head is wrenched back. Steel touches her pale elven flesh and slides slowly across, drawing a thin red line. He sees her pulse quicken and a flash of fear touches her once brave eyes. The threat is clear._

_His head is brought up sharply by a yank on his hair. "I hope you understand human…" The voice hisses by his ear. "There is so much more at stake…"_

_A noise, rustling leaves, draws his captor’s attention. A deer bursts through the foliage yet his captor remains fixated on what lies beyond. Then, he hears it, the baying of dogs and the shouts of men._

_His captor yells to his own men, and bows are drawn taut. The first arrow is unleashed and it strikes with precision, drawing a startled cry from the forest._

_His captor rises and grabs his staff, leaving him suddenly unattended._

_He takes the opportunity to rush to her side, and quickly knocks away the elf holding her with a telekinetic spell. Bonds are frantically untied._

_Freed hands clasp and together they run to the icy water's edge to plunge into the depths below. The sounds of fighting are suddenly muffled, seemingly miles away._

_Gasping for breath, they both make it to the opposite shore. He stands in the knee-deep water and moves after her._

_Red dances in the air, speckling the back of her once-white dress. He is hit, and she whirls at his uttered shock. An arrow protrudes from his throat. He tastes metal and blood bubbles from his mouth. He knows naught who struck him, but that the arrow was human made._

_Eyes meet as she watches him sink back into the water. Tears run down her face as she briefly touches her growing belly. Reluctantly she turns and vanishes in a blue glow._

_Above, a magpie circles, and he closes his eyes as the Pontar River washes over him._

****

Geralt jolted awake, his golden eyes gazing upon the leaf-obscured starry sky above. The sensation of death lingered in his mind, and he sat up slowly, rubbing his throat in self-assurance. His racing heart slowed with the motions of his hand.

"Nightmare?" Asked Lambert, sitting opposite of a crackling fire. He snapped a twig in half before tossing it to the hungry flames.

"Mhm. Can't recall much of it…" Geralt raised his hand briefly as if he could chase the feeling of dread that the dream had brought away. He had to hang his head in mild defeat as the action did no such thing. "Just bits and pieces."

Lambert nodded before turning his own cat-like eyes back to the fire. Between them, the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the night air. The flecks of light dwindled quickly in the midnight cold.

"You should sleep some more… There's long day of riding ahead." Lambert said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between the two witchers.

"Where we heading? Nilfgaard?" Geralt asked with just a hint of hostility. He didn't appreciate the lack of control he had over recent events and wasn't about to hide how he felt about it or Lambert's part in what had transpired.

Lambert didn't meet Geralt's gaze. "Novigrad." He corrected, stirring the coals with a stout stick. "They'll meet us there."

Even without Lambert directly indicating  _who_  they were meeting, from earlier events it was clear that at least Yennefer was involved. Hopefully, Geralt’s conspirators had some sense to leave Ciri in the dark. The last thing he wanted was to pull Nilfgaard’s empress into Redania and further complicate matters.

Lambert relaxed into his pack propped against the nearby tree, lacing his fingers behind his head. He continued speaking despite Geralt's unyielding stare. "We're first going to stop by Von Everics' and see if we can't get a spare horse. From what you've told me of your last encounter I figure he owes you a favor or two."

"Mm." Grunted Geralt, relenting slightly. "How far?"

"Not far, maybe a half day at most. Mainly was waiting until you woke up. Though now that it’s night, I figure it would be better to rest up a bit before heading out again."

Geralt said nothing, but understood. It would have been hard for Lambert to collect on Von Everics' favor if Geralt was unconscious. It would be even harder for Lambert to explain why Geralt was unconscious in the first place.  _That, or why Geralt had a sudden change in personality,_   _should Cregennan be in control_.

For now, Geralt saw sense. He needed a horse, and didn't have the current coin for a new one. "And after? What if I decide to not follow you to Novigrad?" Geralt asked, holding his eyes level with Lambert's own.

Lambert shifted, his eyes pulling away. "Who am I to stop you?" He rolled over onto his side, and rested his head on an arm.

The argument Geralt had prepared, died on his tongue. Clamping his gaping mouth closed, he lay down again and turned his back towards the fire. He almost missed the burning sensation on his wrist before Cregennan's voice entered his head.

" _Why are you so adverse to your friends' aid? They want to help."_

Geralt almost spoke his response aloud, but caught himself.  _Did Lambert and Yennefer put you up to this?_

" _No. This is for my own curiosity… and concern."_  The spirit added.

Geralt sighed.  _They don't need to be involved. I … I can handle this on my own._

" _You will die on your own._ "

 _You seem so sure of that_.

" _And you seem so ignorant of the facts."_

His curled fist smacked the ground. "What facts?" Geralt hissed, only after realizing his sudden outburst. He heard Lambert stir behind him, and Geralt quickly pulled his thoughts back together before continuing.  _You haven’t given me anything to work with! What is so damn important?!?_

There was a pause before Geralt heard Cregennan's voice echoing in his head again.  _"The enemy that you now face is beyond your abilities. I had thought that much was clear to you."_

 _I was unprepared._  Replied Geralt's thoughts, surprisingly more calm than they had been moments earlier.

" _And Skj'eara was toying with you… Regardless, you would have been not only outmatched – you most certainly would have been outnumbered."_

Geralt drew his lips to a thin line. He had hoped Skj'eara would have followed him alone, but if it were as Cregennan said,  he doubted he could win against multiple attackers, especially if they were as capable as Skj'eara had been.

" _Your friends wish to help. Let them._ " Cregennan whispered.

He shook his head.  _If only it was that easy. If it hadn't been for his selfish request to save Ciri, Vesemir could still be alive_. The thought slipped through before Geralt could stop it, and he uttered a silent moan. He shouldn't be thinking like that. The others that had fought with him made it clear that it wasn't his fault. Vesemir died protecting Ciri because Vesemir wanted to protect her.

But that's what Geralt was worried about and the reason why he wouldn't ask his friends to help him this time. He didn't want to put his friends at risk. _Not again._  It wasn’t a matter of willingness; it was a matter of Geralt living with himself over the possible consequences.

Cregennan remained quiet for a long time, and had it not been for the constant burning thrum encircling his arm, Geralt would have thought he was alone with his thoughts. Finally, Cregennan spoke. " _I … understand, your desire to protect your friends… your family… But…_ " Again the spirit paused, " _But you must trust me. Had we other options…_ "

 _We have other options._  Thought Geralt bitterly.

" _What other options? Should we continue running, they will target your friends instead. Through torture and death they will eventually draw you out. Should you choose to fight alone… you will fail, and lose your friends anyway._ "

One more option occurred to Geralt as Cregennan finished, but even in this desperate situation Geralt couldn’t see to killing himself. His pride wouldn’t allow it.  _I'm not afraid of death,_  though whether his thought had been a response to himself or what Cregennan said earlier, Geralt wasn’t sure.

" _That much is clear… But witcher, it wouldn’t just mean your death should we be caught…_ "

More questions bubbled to the forefront, but the burning sensation on Geralt’s wrist had disappeared, indicating that Cregennan was gone, temporarily. He would have no way of getting further answers, and he needed more answers despite how cryptic they always seemed to be. Sighing, Geralt closed his eyes, finally deciding that he might as well get some sleep and deal with tomorrow as it came.

****

Morning came, bringing with it the sun and a cacophony of seasonal songbirds. Geralt rolled onto his back and opened bleary eyes onto the pale yellow and pink streaked world.

Lambert was busying himself with readjusting his mount’s saddle. The grey horse seemingly ignored the thick leather straps cinching around its belly as it ripped up another chunk of scraggly weeds and continued its methodical chewing.

Geralt's side was sore, though that was expected from sleeping on the hard ground. He rose slowly, twisting his torso left and right as he did so in an attempt to work out the stiffness. It was then that he finally noticed his steel and silver blades laid out beside him.  _Had they been there the all along?_

"Have you always been such a heavy sleeper? It's a wonder nothing's managed to kill you yet?" Came Lambert's voice as he slung his pack over the horse's rump and secured it. Amid the sounds of jingling buckles and rustling leather, Geralt detected a hint of teasing behind Lambert's words.

"Well, when you get to be my age…" Geralt joked, craning his neck to one side then the other.

"Your age, my ass. You're not even that much older than me." Though Lambert laughed, Geralt could sense a tremor of worry. It wasn't common for a witcher to sleep soundly, especially out in the wilderness, and Geralt had been no exception to that rule until recently. Lambert tugged twice on the leather straps, ensuring that nothing shifted. Satisfied, he rifled through his pack and tossed a water skin and a slab of fatback in Geralt's direction. "I figured you haven't eaten in awhile."

Geralt nodded his thanks, and though hunger hadn't yet occurred to his waking self, the smell of the cured meat in his hand had roused its interest. He bit off a piece, and allowed the smoky flavor to melt on his tongue before chasing it down with water from the skin. The rest of the fatback didn’t last long after the first bite.

He stood and passed Lambert back the skin, its remaining contents sloshing slightly with the motion. Lambert accepted it and drank down his own mouthful before storing the water skin.

Geralt bent and retrieved his swords. The grass sprung back, grateful to be relieved of the burden, indicating that the weapons hadn't been there during the night, but had been laid down only recently.

A sudden realization struck Geralt as he slung the familiar weights over his shoulders and adjusted the sheaths' straps over his chest. This was the first time in a while that he actually carried his blades. He thought back and couldn't recall their weight on his back, nor the additional awkwardness that would have occurred as he slipped from Lambert's horse.  _Was it Cregennan that Lambert didn’t trust with the swords before this, or him?_

"You ready to go?" Lambert asked, drawing Geralt's attention.

"Yeah… Didn't have much to pack up."

Lambert nodded, then hoisted himself into the saddle. He steered the horse towards Geralt and offered a hand to help him up.

Geralt, being Geralt, declined. "You said half a day. I should be able to keep up on foot."

"On horseback." Lambert exacerbated. "I was saying it'd take half a day on horseback."

"I'm traveling light and am well rested, I'll keep up." Insisted Geralt, annoyed slightly by the prospect of sharing a saddle. He didn't doubt that the horse could carry both him and Lambert, as witcher's had a tendency to acquire mounts that could carry a man, travel luggage and the occasional trophy, still wriggling or dead. It more a matter of pride. No matter how close the two men were, having to ride passenger just seemed… off.

Lambert relented. "Fine. Though if I catch you falling behind…"

"I won't."

Lambert rolled his eyes and spurred his horse south-west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Hmm. Let us say that time has always fascinated me, so I taught myself how best to use it."_ \- Gaunter O'Dimm


	12. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for the long update absence... had a strange amount of trouble trying to figure out how to write the first part.

Geralt's pride lasted longer than his legs.

By mid-day, a flush touched the witcher's pale skin and his unnatural pupils were dilated from exhaustion. Despite Geralt still managing to keep his breathing rhythmic, even Lambert could tell it was strained, as Geralt's nostrils flared with every breath. At the speed they were making, Geralt would more than likely collapse before they made it to the Garin Estate.

Lambert circled back twice, and each time Geralt glared him away. Watching the older witcher struggles to keep up with the horse’s steady gait made Lambert a little more insistent by the third pass.

Slowing his horse's pace, Lambert pulled up beside Geralt. "Hold up. We're over halfway, let's rest a bit before you pass out… again."

“I’m…” _fine._ Was what Geralt was about to retort, but from his raspy tone, they both knew it would have been a lie. Instead, he grumbled and ended his brisk jog.

"Didn't think you could keep up for as long as you did." Lambert admitted, watching as Geralt bent at the waist.

Geralt looked up from his knees to briefly check Lambert for any hint of sarcasm. He didn't find any. The older witcher tried to laugh but it turned into more of a spluttering cough. "Didn't think I could either …"

“Need to switch?” asked Lambert, motioning to the horse’s saddle and reins.

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “Just give me time to catch my breath.”

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Hearing the irritation in Geralt's voice, Lambert let the conversation lie.

“I’ve got something I’ve been wondering for a while.” Geralt said, accepting the waterskin Lambert handed him. “What makes you think the Garin Estate is still standing? Last I saw of it; it had burned to the ground.” He finished speaking and took a small swig before passing the skin back.

“Come on. You think I’d blindly believe every tale you tell me.” Lambert took a drink himself. “I did a little research …”

“You. Doing research?” Scepticism was thick in Geralt’s voice.

“Oh, shut it. Fine. Keira was curious, so I followed up rumors to see if any of it was true.”

“And…?”

“And, yes. The Garin Estate was burned to the ground, but it seems its current proprietor, one Olgeird von Everic, had a sudden change of heart and rebuilt the mansion.”

“What makes you think that he’s still there?”

“Don’t know for sure, but apparently the Redanian Free Company has been put to work chasing off bandits and helping out with settling refugees.”

“Can’t see that lot being too happy with the changes.”

“Yeah…” Commented Lambert as he leaned forward. “A group who refers to themselves as the _Wild Ones_ going domestic … who knows how long that’s going to last.”

“Mmm.”

“Regardless, it’s on the way and we might as well stop by. Worst case, we’ll just barter for a horse. Someone's bound to be offering.” Lambert noted Geralt’s usual pasty pallor was beginning to return. “You need some more time?”

“No. I’ve got my wind back. Let’s go.” Geralt pushed past the horse and started jogging again.

Lambert screwed his eyes up and weighed the options before him. “Wait up.” He finally shouted.

“What?” The jingling of Geralt’s armor and belts stopped once more, as he turned to face Lambert.

“Here.” Lambert tossed Geralt a small vial of some vibrant ruby liquid. “It’s Werewolf Decoction. Figure it’d be better than you running out of breath again.”

“You’ve had this on you the whole time?”

A smug smile slid onto Lambert’s face. “Yup.”

“Bastard,” muttered Geralt as he uncorked the vial. His nose wrinkled when he caught a whiff of the potion.

“You gonna gripe all day, or just drink the damn thing?”

Geralt shot him a withering glare, but drank the vile smelling concoction regardless.

Lambert didn’t envy Geralt. He didn’t envy the way an unnatural energy suddenly flooded Geralt’s system. Didn’t envy how the signs of Geralt’s earlier exertion simply vanished. He _knew_.

Geralt fought the brief spasms that shook his body, the throbbing of his veins as they pushed the boundaries of his skin. His face freshly painted with streaks of purple and crimson. The pain eased, but the faint throbbing would remain. It would remain until his body inevitably overcame the decoction’s toxins, as it would for any other witcher. For now, Geralt would have the limitless endurance of a werewolf. For now, he would benefit from being a witcher.

A large plume of smoke rose ahead of the pair and the wind blew its acrid smell toward the witchers. It was too early to grow wary, as it was still the season for summer festivals, it also wouldn't have been the first overzealous bonfire they came across. No, it wasn’t until the frightened shrieks reached their ears did they bother to hurry.

****

Once more, the Estate was a sea of fire. The grandiose manor was a wailing pile of glowing timbers and snapping flames. Lambert had already dismounted and had hidden his horse nearby, safely away from the blaze.

“Ain’t it be the witcher?” A man drawled slowly, tapping his back with the flat of his blade. Its edge dripping red as he approached the pair.

“And seems ‘e brought a friend.” Sneered a second, kicking a nearby corpse.

“You got no business ‘ere, freaks.” The first man stepped forward, puffing his chest out slightly. “Push off.”

A familiar shout sounded in the distance, and Geralt’s hand twitched towards his sword. "I'm here to see Olgierd." Geralt stated as calmly as the situation allowed.

"What for? ‘E call fer 'elp or somethin'?" The second asked, earning a jab in the ribs from his apparent friend.

"He's busy at the moment."

Geralt glanced back at Lambert. "That right?" Lambert nodded. Whatever Geralt was going to do Lambert was ready to follow through.

"Tha's right." The second parroted, unaware of the exchange that had just occurred.

The first wasn't as dense. His sword now rested at his side, its ominous tip pointed towards the pair of witchers. "Olgierd don't 'ave time ta deal wit' yah now, so fuck off before I need to stop asking nice-like." He tapped his calf with the blade, making it blatantly obvious where the conversation was heading.

Another shout and Geralt had drawn his steel sword, temporarily forgetting its toll. He sliced downwards on the first man, cleaving him from right collar bone to left hip as if he were made of butter. There had been no resistance. No push back against Geralt’s enchanted blade. The sabre didn’t even slow as it cut through bone, through the leather armor that clothed the man, nor on the steel he held to block Geralt’s strike.

Alongside Geralt, Lambert had drawn his own blade and gave chase to the second man who ran screaming into the depths of the Estate after witnessing the death of his comrade.

Geralt followed shortly after, his sabre leaving a glowing trail of red in the air.

* * *

“Olgierd!” Came a throaty call. He knew that voice. Knew the man it belonged to, or at least he thought he did. No longer did Olgierd von Everic see looks of admiration from his men. Those had long since faded when he turned his back on banditry.

He ran quick fingers through his orange coif of hair and rolled up the sleeves covering his tattoo and scar-laced arms. Olgierd had seen this coming, _how could he not? Even a blind man could have seen the storm brewing. It had been only a matter of time before the mutiny occurred._

The once-immortal man turned to face his men, _nay they weren't his men anymore_. He faced the Wild Ones, no shred of the Redanian Free Army remaining.

Olgierd drew his blade. He may have been reliant on his immortality, but it hadn't gotten him the rank of Ataman. That he got through skill, skill and an iron will. He was still a soldier and they would come to know what that meant. "Well come then you bastards." Olgierd taunted the crowd. "Which one of you will finally still my heart!"

A murmur rose amid the sea of hungry eyes, and the crowd parted for a young woman with short cropped black hair and a jangle of hammered bronze earrings.

"Even you, Adela?"

She ignored his question, approaching him with cat-like grace, dual daggers drawn. Adela stopped at his shoulder, no hint of betrayal in her dark eyes, much unlike those surrounding them. "I will stand with Olgierd!" She pronounced proudly, her right dagger raised defiantly to the jeering crowd.

A small smile quirked Olgierd's lips, and then all hell broke loose.

****

The manor was the first to fall to the mayhem. Its once-rowdy halls and booze-soaked carpets, burning yet again. All the work of half a year, undone in a matter of hours.

What the Wild Ones lacked in training and discipline, they made up for in numbers and tenacity. The eager died quickly, falling to a well-timed blade to the ribs or throat. Now they came more slowly, more carefully. Each taking their time, trying to wear them out. Each hoping for Olgierd and Adela to make a fatal mistake.

Olgierd wiped his brow smearing it with the soot that caked his body and hands. The movement cracked open a just-formed clot on his forehead and blood trickled down from the small gash. Breathing was becoming a chore - what with the thick smoke that hung in the air and the exertion he demanded of his muscles.

To his left stood Adela, albeit a little shakily. Her loose red blouse was shredded to ribbons and a nasty cut ran across her shoulder. Under all the soot, blood, and dirt covering her body, it was hard to tell how many other wounds she was sporting. Olgierd imagined he didn’t look much better from the cringing once-over she gave him.

He wondered what the bards would sing of this day. Would he finally be painted as a hero? Would he be facing off against hundreds of foes, instead of the couple of dozens that he actually faced _? Or would he just be remembered as the stone-hearted monster he once was?_ Not that it mattered. Any of the non-combatants ran off in a flurry of skirts and shrieks at the first sign of trouble. No one dared to stay to witness the inevitable battle.

Unwilling to give the satisfaction of looking weak, Olgierd spat a bloody wad, sneering at the thug that stood before him.

"You will die here," stated the thug.

"Maybe so, but it won’t be to the likes of you." Shot back Olgierd. Adela snorted at the comment as her own victim stepped out from the shrinking ring of hostile faces.

A snarl ripped from Olgierd’s opponent as the thug ran towards him, spurred by the insult. Olgierd roared his challenge as the blades locked hilts, his hazel eyes glaring daggers into the man he had once shared drink with. They separated briefly before clashing again.

Embers popped in the background and rafters groaned before finally collapsing inward, but it went unnoticed. All eyes were fixed on the fight before them.

Olgierd’s footing slid backwards in the blood-soaked earth, a bit of entrails tugging on his boot. He ducked away from a wide swing, and struck out with his sabre. _Blocked_. He tried a feint followed by a forward thrust. _Deflected_. Olgierd twisted away and brought up his sword to block a downward strike. His blade stopped the blow, but at a cost. Caught at an awkward angle, pain lanced through his wrist as it shuddered under his opponent's weight. Hopefully, it was only a sprain. He switched hands, his sabre now in his less dominant, but uninjured, hand.

Beside him, Adela was facing similar difficulty. Faced with opponents that easily dwarfed her small frame she had to move farther, move faster than them to prove more deadly. She was growing tired and with it, clumsy. The new injury on her thigh was proof enough.

One misstep was all it took. Too much weight on her injured leg made her miss the strike that sent her sprawling. Olgierd shouted, but there was no way he could get to her on time to be of any help.

A scream from one of the Wild Ones, proved to be a blessing. For the briefest of moments Adela's opponent looked away, giving her the time needed to find her feet. She sprang at her enemy plunging the steel fangs into his chest. He fell back with Adela still straddling his torso and repeatedly sliding her daggers in and out of his body in a desperate frenzy. Adela sat on her knees panting, and looked up when no else stepped forward to challenge her. At the same time, Olgierd had taken his own advantage and skewered his distracted opponent, a spray of artery fluid spotted his patterned gambeson as he retracted his blade.

No longer were Olgierd and Adela the center of attention, another seemed to have claimed that. The screams of the Wild One finally silenced when an auburn haired man expertly sliced his jugular. Olgierd swore he caught a glimpse of cat-eyes, but the man quickly spun, taking out another individual who dared challenge the newcomer.

"I don’ fuckin’ believe it." Came Adela’s voice, and Olgierd turned to see the second individual who had caught her attention. "It’s fuckin’ Puss Peepers…" Olgierd didn’t recognize the nickname, but he did recognize the white-haired witcher, even with the splattering of fresh blood and viscera.

A short bark of a laugh escaped his throat, and a newly awakened vigor filled his aching body. What a sight it was to watch the pair of witchers cutting down the remaining rebellion as if hacking through a field of daffodils. What a sight to witness Iris in the hands of a master, the sabre singing through the air in a whirlwind of enchanted red and splashing crimson.

* * *

The fight didn’t last more than a few more minutes. With the tides turned, a hesitant few turned tail, while those that stayed fell to one of the five blades.

"Geralt," said Olgierd, as he approached the witcher. Geralt quickly wiped the blade clean on a pant-leg and sheathed it. The energy the sword gave him during the fight quenched and now he felt weakened as a result. "It is good to see you."

"Likewise." Geralt answered, accepting Olgierd’s firm handshake.

"It's been far too long. I hope you haven’t come because of our… _mutual acquaintance_." The distaste in Olgierd’s voice didn’t go unnoticed, as his grip lingered momentarily.

"No… We’re here hoping to get a mount, but I can see you yourself are in no state for handouts."

Olgierd chuckled, sheathing his sword. "Geralt, this is twice now that I am in your debt. Should I only have the clothes on my back, I would still offer them to you. Come." The man gestured to a distant circle of laundry basins, abandoned when the fray began. "You and your friend should get cleaned up. I would offer a bath, but..." He looked sadly to the smoldering building. "I'm afraid the water might be a little on the hot side right now."

Geralt smiled weakly at the attempted joke. "We will gladly take what you can offer us."

Nodding, Olgierd led them a short ways. Behind them, Lambert had offered to help Adela walk, but one quick glare was enough for him to know what she thought of the idea.

"Fortunately for you and me both, those turncoats left the stables untouched," continued Olgierd. "Seems Vlodimir's love of horses managed to rub off on that lot at least." Olgierd passed Geralt a slightly damp linen he plucked from a clothesline. Grabbing another for himself, he dipped a corner into the nearby basins of soapy water and used it to clean the grime from his face.

Grateful for the chance to clean the recent carnage from his body, Geralt followed suit.

"It sure is something else watching you witchers fight." Olgierd muttered, dragging the cloth down his neck and wiping over his shoulder. "I assume the other one is a witcher… if those eyes of his is any indication."

Geralt’s eyes followed Olgierd’s gaze. "His name is Lambert, and yes, he’s a witcher."

"Thought as much, though while I’m grateful you two showed up… seeing two witchers together is never a good omen. You gotten yourself into more trouble?"

"More than what you got me in last time?" Joked Geralt, returning his attention to cleaning the blood from his front.

"If that is true, then you have my sympathies," laughed Olgierd. "Speaking of which, you may want to wash that blood out of your hair sooner rather than later. Would hate to see it dye those white locks of yours pink…"

Geralt touched his head, his fingers coming away suspiciously dry. He bent over to peer into the basin, his reflection looking back through the still water. A dark shade of vermillion stained the roots of his hair, and despite the thorough rinsing he gave it, the color wouldn't lessen.

An eerie sense of dread began to fill him. It was a color he'd seen for just the briefest of moments on a traveling healer who had once saved him, and one he barely remembered on himself before he underwent the second set of the witcher trials.

His natural hair color was returning… and he had no idea why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured Geralt had red hair like his mother (Visenna) before he underwent the additional witcher trials that turned it white...


	13. And Then There Were Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, my story is still in-canon despite the new Blood and Wine DLC coming out.  
> As a side note, I did a little experiment and ran Roach from Gavin Estate to Novigrad and it only took an in-game hour... that seemed way to short, so decidedly, the size of the world in my story is bigger than in the game.

Geralt's frenetic washing drew Lambert's attention away from his own cleaning. At first he didn't suspect anything. After all, Geralt always preferred being clean, a fact that living with Yennefer reinforced. No, it wasn't until he heard mild cursing and the other witcher stalking away that Lambert looked up.

Geralt was likely arguing with Cregennan because the man, Olgierd, didn't seem actively participating in Geralt's sudden ravings. The witcher was talking in clipped whispers, and despite Geralt's attempts at secrecy, Lambert still managed to catch the occasional snippet: namely, "Why...?" "How...?" and "Can this be fixed?". The last one, especially, caught Lambert's attention. _What needs to be fixed?_

"What's your friend on about?" Mumbled the woman beside him. "'e off his rocker or something?"

"Or something..." He answered, a bit unsure of how much he should be trusting these people.

Lambert figured he was as clean as he was going to get and moved to join Geralt, but Olgierd beat Lambert to where the other witcher stood.

"Geralt, you alright? It's just a bit of red..." Olgierd's once-jovial visage suddenly turned sour. "It's more than that, isn't it?" Geralt kept his face neutral. Instead, Olgierd looked to Lambert as if he had the answers that Geralt wasn't willing to share.

Lambert's still expression seemed to be all that Olgierd needed.

Olgierd sighed. "Well, let's see to getting you a horse." The man ran a hand through his hair and finally rested the wandering limb on a hip. "You, Lambert was it, will you need one as well?"

"No. Got my own stashed up a ways," answered Lambert, tossing his own bloodied linen back into a nearby wash basin. The cloth disturbed the soapy water momentarily with a soft splish.

Olgierd nodded curtly before turning to the dark-haired woman. "Adela, can you see to setting up our witcher friend here a horse? Hopefully we still have a few loyal stable hands around here."

Adela acknowledged Olgierd's request then departed, presumably to head to the stables.

"She going to be alright?" Geralt asked, gesturing to the slight limp Adela walked with.

"Adela's a tough one. If the injury was something serious, she'd have said something about it..."

"Mmm."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Hard to be when I see an injury like that. Could be she's putting up a brave front."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience, Geralt."

"Just seen my share of injuries and stubborn fools who think they know better."

Olgierd grew silent, sighed, and grew silent again. "Very well, come. Let's make sure _she_ doesn't strain herself."

The three men walked, with Olgierd taking the lead because neither Geralt nor Lambert knew where to find the stables. Also, Lambert wanted to trail behind so he could keep an eye on Geralt - only now noticing the crimson streaking the older witcher's white hair.

Lambert paused, short enough that Geralt and Olgierd hadn't noticed. _It couldn't be. It shouldn't even be possible._ The second set of trials that had stripped Geralt of his natural pigments made him faster, stronger than any other witcher, _and now_ ... _? What did it mean if those pigments were coming back?_ _Maybe he was overthinking things. After all, Geralt, a red-head? Hard to imagine_. _But_... Lambert just couldn't shake the nagging feeling.

"Where are you two headed?" Olgierd's boisterous voice had pulled Lambert from his pondering.

Surprisingly, Geralt was the first to answer. "Novigrad," he stated simply, as if the previous night’s disagreement had never happened. A slight twinge of reluctance pulled at the corner of Geralt's lip, and Lambert couldn't help thinking that Geralt's change of heart had something to do with his earlier discussion with Cregennan.

"Novigrad," repeated Olgierd, smoothing his fingers over the short hairs of his beard. "Odd place for a _pair_ of witchers."

* * *

 Geralt and Olgierd approached the stables alone, Lambert having since left to retrieve his own horse.

Seeing the saddled and ready Pinto did little to ease Geralt's growing disquiet. If anything, it reminded him all too much of why he now had to go to Novigrad. For once, Cregennan honestly didn't seem to have any explanation of what they both sensed. And for once, Geralt had to agree they needed help.

"Adela!" Olgierd barked. "Go get that leg dealt with. I can see you limping from here."

She looked up, away from her brushing, and earned an irritated stamp from the horse beside her at the sudden interruption. "Jus' finishing up 'ere," acknowledged Adela.

"Now. You're no good to me with an infected leg."

"Aye..." Adela answered before roughly tossing the brush she was using into a small bucket at her feet. She didn't have far to hobble. A white tent had been quickly set up nearby to attend to the wounded of those that remained, and Olgierd waited to make sure she made it.

Seemingly satisfied once Adela's figure disappeared behind a wall of white canvas, Olgierd turned to the mouse-like stable boy. "I hope she didn't do the whole thing herself..."

"Ummm."

Olgierd arched a brow at the boy's lacking response.

"I t-t-tried ser. I insisted m-most adamantly, but she just wouldn' 'ave it." The boy managed to stutter out.

"Sounds like something she would do," breathed Olgierd, as he smoothed his hair back tiredly. "Well, you can make yourself useful now boy."

"Ser?"

"Ready me a horse. The surly black one, and be quick about it."

The young stable hand looked puzzled briefly then gave a mock salute before scampering off with reins and saddle in hand.

"Olgierd..."

"Geralt, as I see it, I owe you more than just a horse." Olgierd said, the man's eyes not leaving the boy rushing to ready a mount. "I could spend my whole life trying to repay you for what you've done, and still be indebted. Had you not intervened... well, I suspect O'Dimm wouldn't have let me off so kindly." The once-immortal laughed weakly, and shook his head.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Geralt gave a faint nod, his eyes focusing on a spot on the ground. "What of the Estate? Of what you built here?"

Olgierd rocked back on his heels, his hands cradled behind his back. "I'm sure Adela can handle things while I'm away. After the thrashing we gave them, I doubt the Wild Ones will be causing anymore trouble... for a while at least."

The boy returned, leading a docile black mare by the reins.

With a nod, Olgierd accepted the horse from the boy. "So, which one do you want?" Olgierd gestured first to the Pinto, then the black mare – a knowing glint in his eye.

Black horse eyes met Geralt's, and a jolt of familiarity struck the witcher. "Roach?"

"Figured she was yours," he said as the black horse pulled easily from his hand.

Geralt braced himself as Roach ploughed into him head first. "I thought I left her at Corvo Bianco in Toussaint." Awe laced Geralt's voice as he nudged her nibbling teeth away from his neck.

"Perhaps you did, but she seemed rightly determined to find you," Olgierd said giving Roach a quick pat. "Found her wandering the outskirts of Oxenfort about a year back, giving some drunkards the run-around."

Geralt nodded, he could see that. "But what made you think she was mine?"

"For starters, she recognized me. Followed me and Avis back here." This time Olgierd gave the Pinto a gentle rub along her nose. "At a certain point your horse even ran ahead, but stopped when she got caught on a low fence. I still can't fathom how though; she clearly could have gone around it."

If horses could look sheepish, then Roach definitely was. "That can't be all." Geralt stated.

"Oh, it wasn't," replied Olgierd as he crossed his arms over his chest. "For a long while she seemed restless, refused to eat, and even broke through a few fences. The help thought I was mad to keep her." The once-immortal paused, sighing slightly. "Eventually, I figured the best thing would be to sell her, but even that didn't work out. A day later she was back in the stables as if nothing happened." The memory brought a small chuckle. "Things did get better when we started leaving her pen open though. During the day she'd go wandering, and come nightfall, return. Thinking on it now, I guess she was looking for you..."

"But..."

"By this time of day she's usually long gone."

Geralt raised a brow, then returned his gaze to Roach. "Mmm," he nodded before climbing up into the saddle.

"Right then. Let's go meet up with your friend. I'm sure he's waiting for us by now." Olgierd gave Avis a quick pat, then swung up into his saddle, resting his feet comfortably in the stirrups.

The pair found Lambert leaning up against a rickety fence post. His grey mare stood nearby, antsy to get moving.

With a small nod, Lambert mounted his own horse and joined them on the well-worn road. The other witcher didn't seem curious about their additional companion, and Geralt was grateful he wouldn't have to explain it to Lambert.

****

"Ahhrgh! Fuck!"

Geralt slowed Roach's gait to a canter. Judging by the looks from the others, he wasn't the only one who heard the cry.

"Leave it be. We don't have time for this," came Lambert's crisp response. The other witcher clicked his tongue and nudged his horse back into a faster pace.

"No, no, no, no, no! Aw, bloody 'ell not Manfred." the voice sobbed, drawing Geralt's attention again.

"Geralt-"

But Geralt was no longer listening to Lambert. Instead, he turned Roach towards the sounds of distress and urged her away from the road and into the brush.

****

The witcher emerged into a small clearing, startling a wounded man who fell from his perch in a nearby elm with a crack. At first, Geralt suspected the distressed man had broken a bone, but it was only the man's short bow - now in two pieces.

"What happened?" The witcher asked, dismounting from his horse.

The man looked away from the opened gash on his calf and shakily came to his feet - one of which was missing its boot. "I-i-it came out of nowhere. We-we dinna see it coming..."

"See what?"

"It was big 'n white, with 'orrible claws and teeth. I ran as soon as I heards it..." The man began clutching his head staring off into the distance, his eyes not really focusing on anything. "Thomas... Manfred... Oh, fuckin' 'ell. Oh, fuckin' 'ell." His speech devolved into mindless repetition.

 _Not going to get much more out of him_. Geralt sighed. _Better look around_.

Concentrating, the witcher tuned out the mutterings of the peasant. He tuned out the sounds of Lambert and Olgierd arriving and instead, the witcher turned his attention to the rustling of leaves, the depths of the claw marks scoring the trees and the ground, and the pungent odour of blood that dappled everything.

The scent of recent gore and dusty tracks led away from the scene; _that, he could follow_.

It led him to half a stag, its entrails spilling out where the hind legs should have been. _The beast's recent meal_ , though the buck's rope-bound hooves indicated it was more complicated than that.

Geralt crouched by the deer carcass and looked it over. A deep wound near its shoulder suggested an arrow's point of entry. _A messy kill. Would've taken a while to bleed out..._ an incision ran down what remained of the stag's cream-colored belly. _Too precise to be a beast's work._ Curious, the witcher pulled open the flap. The trachea, lungs, heart had been removed. _It was being gutted out._ The witcher gave a look of disapproval at the obvious mistake. _Smell must have been what attracted the beast._

From the scattered footprints, the witcher garnered the hunters split, each running a different direction. Only two sets made any significant distance, while the third ended with a mess of spilled blood and scraps of fabric. _Deer was left unfinished, but there's no trace of whoever died._ The witcher's lips tightened into a line. _Beast eats meat, but has a preference for human. Gonna have to deal with it before this becomes more than just missing hunters..._

"Geralt." It was Lambert again. "We aren't going to get paid from this. Let's go."

"Can't. There's a man-eater."

Lambert sighed. Both witcher's knew the implications with a man-eating beast. "Body's gone?"

The witcher nodded as he inspected a large paw print. _Five toed ... a bear?_ "No signs it was moved either."

"Shit." Lambert slid from his saddle. "Any idea what we're dealing with?"

"Not completely sure," Geralt said, rising from his crouch.

"Oh?"

"Evidence suggests it's a bear, a large one, but the witness claimed it was white."

Lambert visibly relaxed. "So? Seems like you got things figured out already. Just kill the thing and let's get moving. Sun's setting soon."

Somewhat lost in thought, Geralt frowned. "Haven't seen white bears since Skellige..."

"Could be a merchant brought it over. Hoped to sell it as some exotic pet," suggested Lambert somewhat impatiently. "Not the first time I've seen that sort of idiocy."

"Mmm." It felt like a sign, but whether a positive or a negative one, Geralt wasn't sure. He disregarded the thought and set to following the distinct bear tracks, leaving Lambert in the clearing.

****

Leaves rustled by the breeze while Geralt waited, crouching in the underbrush. His golden eyes pierced the foliage, as he spied the lumbering creature. Old scars littered its white, muscled body: many appeared to be from other bears. Broken arrow shafts dotted the beast's hide, and blood flowed from a fresh knife wound down the left side of its face, the cut crossing over its still-intact black eye.

The bear rose to its full, massive height. It paused and tested the air with a few short breaths, despite the witcher squatting downwind. The witcher tensed as the beast seemed to scan the forest for his presence. If it had seen the witcher, it gave no indication. The beast gave a quick snort then crashed back to all fours with a resounding thud, the ground shaking slightly from the impact.

Neither moved.

The witcher felt no vibrations coming from his wolf medallion. _Steel sword then_. His hand went for Iris strung across his back, sliding the enchanted sabre from its sheath ever so slowly.

The beast's head turned towards the witcher - drawn by the sound of sliding steel. It seemed almost content to wait for the witcher to reveal himself. The witcher obliged the beast and stepped forward into the small ring of cleared brush.

Casting Quen, the witcher's actions were met with an echoey snarl. The tonne of muscle, fur, fangs, and claws descended upon him. The witcher rolled out of the way of the devastating charge, a crack split a nearby tree's trunk as the beast rammed into it.

For a fleeting moment the bear was stunned; the witcher spun and brought down his blade, cutting into its exposed flank. He dived backwards, barely avoiding a retaliative swipe of a huge paw. With his sabre held out defensively across his body, he strafed to his right trying to take advantage of the beast's obscured vision on its left.

The beast wouldn't have it.

Its head turned with the witcher's movements, the blood-free eye always on him. It lunged at him, striking forward with both paws.

The witcher stepped back, the bear's paws missing and instead thumping heavily onto the ground. He stabbed forward grazing its neck with his sabre, before retreating quickly from an angry snap of its jaws.

The pair circled each other, each looking for some weakness, some opening.

The witcher acted first, his hand thrusting out towards the bear, his finger's bending into the sign of Igni. The magical flames surged forward in a wave, scorching everything they touched. The beast cringed back from the heat, as the witcher kept the fire coming.

Suddenly, something inside of him snapped. His stamina suddenly spent. _Too soon._ Geralt gasped, his muscles seizing. His arm went to his side to clutch at the agonizing pain shooting through his nerves. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus through the agony.

The beast saw its chance and rushed the distance, shrugging off the tiny flames that still touched its pale fur. Its head dug into Geralt's belly, forcing the air from his lungs.

Quen shattered the force of the explosion driving the beast back as Geralt fell to his knees wheezing.

Again the beast was upon him, rising up on its hind legs. It let out one last roar before it let its weight fall, its teeth going for Geralt's throat.

****

The air settled, and a starling lighted on an overhanging branch, sending the thin limb wobbling. The mass of white fur moved, startling the bird into the air again.

With a groan, Geralt eased himself out from under the bear's corpse, his front thoroughly drenched with blood. For now, the pain had stopped, but still he felt residual twitches trailing along his body.

It took some effort, but he managed to free his blade from the creature's throat. He wiped it down on a pant leg, then sheathed the blade once more across his back.

As he was leaving the clearing, a form caught his eye. It was small – the size of child – and barely visible where it lay amid the low growing bushes. A bear cub. _Dead_. Its skinned flesh, just dry, flies already buzzing around the acrid-smelling carcass. Geralt released his hold on the brush, covering up the body once more. _It wasn't skinned by any animal, the knife wounds made that clear enough._

****

Wordlessly, Geralt passed by Olgierd and Lambert, ignoring their stares as he stiffly clambered back on Roach's back. Wordlessly, he urged the mare back to the road.

"Master witcher, ser..." The voice drew his attention, and he pulled back on the reins stopping Roach's trot. It was the man he had encountered earlier. A younger man stood beside him. "I don' have much to give you fer helpin me an Thomas, but I'd want you to have this-" He held offered Geralt an ashen pelt. _The_ ashen pelt missing from the cub back in the clearing. The man shrunk back under Geralt's sudden scowl and mumbled "Thought you might be able to sell it fer something."

Kicking his heels into Roach's sides he started her towards the road again, not bothering to check to see if Lambert and Olgierd were following.

Olgierd pulled up beside him. "You're not going to take your reward?"

"No." Geralt replied tersely. "I killed the _wrong_ monster."

"What d-" Olgierd stopped himself, taking in the look Geralt gave him. He nodded then fell back beside Lambert.

Fortunately, Novigrad wasn't far now. It was going to be a very quiet trip.

****

Geralt dismounted, tying Roach's reins to a post just outside of the Rosemary and Thyme - renamed the Chameleon by its current proprietor, Dandelion, who appeared absent at the moment. Lambert and Olgierd silently followed suit, Geralt's soured mood evidently wearing on the other two.

The trio entered the cabaret and were met with the jaunty tune of Dandelion's hired troubadour. A few patrons looked up from their drinks, but most were content to ignore the travelers.

"Lambert!" The blond woman trilled, pushing past Geralt and wrapping her arms around the other witcher's neck. "Finally. Where's-" The thought died in Keira's throat as Lambert coughed his eyes staring fixedly at Geralt. She turned, recognition taking a second before she mouthed _Oh_.

"Keira? Is-" Yennefer had appeared in the far stairway, looking to the young sorceress, then to the trio who had just entered. Her eyes narrowed then widened in surprise as she noticed Geralt. In quick steps she closed the distance, barely disturbing the cabaret's guests. "Geralt?" She asked, for once a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yen- I" Geralt began.

Yennefer's hands went to cover her mouth, as shock touched her violet eyes. "Geralt. What-" She bit her lip and leaned closer, trying to find something in his eyes but not seeing it. "Your eyes..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darn you Equine Phantom quest. Darn you for making me care a little more about Roach!!! Yes, late-game Roach is back, and I blame the new DLC for it.


	14. A Guest Comes Knocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh... I figure Ciri at least remembers what Regis looks like even if it has been a while and she only knew him for a short while (it just makes things easier that way).

Ciri couldn't stop pacing. The uncertainty of…  _everything_ was driving her insane. Yennefer had left on some errand – where to and what for was a mystery, though Ciri had her suspicions.

She halted. That had been two days ago, with no rumor or message to provide insight to the current situation. In frustration, she grabbed a nearby cushion from a lounger and threw it across the room. It caught on the edge of a stack of books, sending them toppling to the floor.

_They continue to treat her like a child; Yennefer and Geralt both. They try to protect her from the world despite how much she has grown, when even now she could be helping. Royal duties be damned!_

She resumed her brisk steps, each footfall muffled by the lush carpets of her personal chambers, the dancing candlelight mimicking her impatience.

Given how agitated Ciri was, she was lucky to not have missed the minute vibrations from her cat-headed medallion. But as it was, she did notice, and her attention was drawn to the crimson mist coming under the door. Quickly covering the distance to her ridiculously large four-poster bed, she drew a blade hidden at the foot of one of the posts. It wasn't her preferred weapon, the thin steel was barely a foot long, but in the case of a sudden ambush, it would suffice.

She turned to the mist rising from the floor and noticed its shape forming something vaguely human. Her blade went to where she suspected its throat was and tensed, ready to push the dagger into solidifying flesh.

It was a good thing, though, that she took a moment to see who had invaded her quarters, as the alternative would have been embarrassing to both parties.

"Regis!" Exclaimed Ciri, shocked to see the high vampire. Geralt had mentioned that Regis was still alive and again kicking, but to see him again was still a surprise.

Regis stiffened, his arms raised in mock surrender. Despite the steel at his pale throat, the grey-haired vampire smiled thinly. "Yes, well, I suppose I had this coming. I suspect it would have been better to knock first… I shall remember that for next time."

"I could have killed you…" Ciri said lowering the blade.

The vampiric barber-surgeon adjusted the satchel strap strung across his chest and spared a glance to the short dagger Ciri had held to his neck. "I severely doubt it. It would have been a bit of a nuisance, though."

"A blade through your throat is only a nuisance?" asked Ciri incredulously, as she sheathed the steel back into the bedpost.

"At best," He shrugged, "although, I do commend the effort."

Somewhat unamused, Ciri crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow in the vampire's direction. "Why do I feel you're patronizing me?"

"My apologies. Had I not been what I am, that would have a most effective way to deal with the intrusion, though perhaps a little messy for your carpets." Regis added, seemingly pondering a possible alternative that would spare the lavish floor coverings.

Ciri rolled her eyes. The carpets would have been the least of her concern. "I suspect you didn't come here to test my assassin-stopping abilities."

"No. I was sent by way of a letter from the Lady Yennefer. She requested my presence at the palace, though I surmise she is here no longer."

"When did you get this letter?"

"Three days ago, I believe." Regis answered, tapping an unusually sharp fingernail thoughtfully against his shaven chin. "I would have been here earlier, but I had a few things to wrap up first."

"Did she specify why she wanted you here?"

"She did."

When no further elaboration came, Ciri realized she would have to push a little harder if she wanted answers. "Anything you can share?"

"Hmmm?" The barber-surgeon fidgeted once more with his satchel strap. "Ah, well her message indicated that I was to watch over you until her return. I felt it necessary to inform you of as much, seeing as I am going to be a temporary guest for however long… hence my appearance before you now." He rocked back on his heels slightly, his hands still firmly wrapped around the strap across his chest.

"Yennefer's return? Does that mean you know where she went?"

"I'm afraid that tidbit of information may undermine Yennefer’s insistence upon my discretion."

"But you do know where she went?"

"Yes, I do believe I have a vague understanding of where she could have gone in such a hurry. The crows have informed me of as much."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That, I'm not supposed to tell you."

"What if I find out where she is on my own?"

"I was only tasked with your protection. Should you feel the need to act upon such information, I will continue to do so."

"And if I just happen to leave…"

"Then I must follow. Though, as you are an Empress, I strongly advise against such recklessness. I believe your advisors would agree with me."

"Bah, those wrinkly old codgers can run the place while I'm gone. It wouldn't be the first time I've snuck out." She said, flashing Regis a mischievous grin.

"Since I can't convince you otherwise; how do you see yourself escaping? The halls are quiet this time of night, though we'd best be careful of patrolling guards. I doubt they're aware of my guest status as of yet." He paused, seeing that Ciri didn't appear at all interested at his suggestion. "The window could be another; I saw some good handholds that could be of use…"

"Not the hallway, and definitely not the window. I've got something better."

"Better?"

Ciri slipped an arm around the vampire's and gave it a few reassuring pats with her other. "Much better."

And with that, the pair were gone; whisked away in a blink of swirling blue light.

* * *

After being somewhat forcefully dragged to one of the Chameleon's private second-floor rooms - leaving the rest of his party at the cabaret's entrance - Geralt explained everything he could to Yennefer: from the fight with the mysterious elf to his most recent misadventure.

The sorceress sat - quiet and attentive - as he finished. She mulled a few things over in her mind, casting short glances to his hair and eyes, and took another sip from the glass of red wine set out on the round table between them. Without saying a word, she grabbed his forearm and pulled the glove from his hand, revealing the magic brand encircling his wrist. Yennefer held his hand, hers soft and delicate, and turned it slowly to analyze the tingling runes that were burned into his flesh.

"These marks shouldn't have done this, at least not on their own." She sighed. "Was there something else? Something that could have left you weakened… a potion, or…" Her eyes strayed to the blades across his back, evident over his shoulder. "Geralt, let me see your swords. You said you had to replace them…"

"Only the steel one."

"Yes, yes. Just let me see them."

He shrugged, not seeing the harm in following her request. Geralt had removed his baldric - and the attached blades - and laid them across the wooden table.

The raven-haired sorceress tentatively reached first for the silver sword, Aerondight, shushing Geralt with a single finger to her lips when he tried to interject.

She slipped the blade free of its sheath, and inspected the runes that were expertly carved into its polished surface. While the marks fascinated her, from the small downwards turn of her lip it was clear that wasn't what she was looking for. When their eyes met, he raised his brows in an 'I told you so' manner; which Yennefer pointedly ignored as she slid the sword back into its sheath.

Next, she went for his steel sword. The raven-haired sorceress hissed subtly as she drew the sabre an inch and then quickly slammed it back into its wrapping. She looked up at Geralt, muttered a short curse under her breath, and carefully drew the enchanted steel again.

Not wanting to deal with Iris' double-edged enchantment for long, her violet eyes danced swiftly over the blade's etchings. Several runes responded to a few spoken words with an eerie red glow, and her face took on an expression of mild disgust. She sheathed it swiftly.

"Only with your luck…" Yennefer griped, resting her fingers against one temple. "The good news is that  _this_ ,” she briefly gestured over Geralt's current appearance, "isn't permanent."

"What's the cause?"

"A combination of things really. First, is that damned blade of yours… the idiotic thing draws on the life energy of its user. While barbaric, a rest or two between uses would normally be enough to replenish any energy lost in its use. Unfortunately, the runes on your wrist are inhibiting the ability to recuperate the lost energy…" Once again, she took his hand in hers. "I imagine the original set took your mutations into account. The marks that remain, don't. They're no longer exclusively targeting Cregennan's mutations; they're suppressing your witcher ones as well."

" _Ah, I had not thought of that… Perhaps next time you could allow me a look? I've always had a fondness for enchanted blades._ "

"How do I fix it?" Geralt asked, pulling back his hand and making no acknowledgement of Cregennan’s comment.

"It's not something that can easily be 'fixed'. There's strict preparation. It could take days, weeks even before I would be ready enough to attempt such a thing."

"I don't have weeks, Yen. Couldn't Keira help? Triss?"

"Geralt. My estimate  _was_ including the other sorceresses. As flattering as your faith in my abilities is, a few days is the earliest estimate I can give you."

"Then we're done here. As soon as I find where Dandelion stored my trunk, I'm leaving." Geralt stood, the stool he sat upon scraping the floor.

Silence fell between the two. When no one spoke, Geralt moved towards the door, first gathering up his swords and glove.

"It's where it's always been, by the entrance." Yennefer relented, but her eyes bore holes into his back. "The key is under the loose floorboard behind the bar."

"Mmm." He nodded.

"Geralt."

"Yes?"

"After you've cleaned up, will you reconsider waiting?"

Cregennan wasn't about to go away, and added his own agreement. " _We could hide for a while… Your current appearance is unknown to our enemies…"_

Geralt paused, turning to catch Yennefer’s imploring expression to stay; and almost giving in to it.

" _You are weak. Even more so now… take the chance to recuperate."_

"Can't risk it," said Geralt eventually.  _Cregennan was right was right about one thing._   _He couldn't protect them as he is now_.

With a shake of her head, Yennefer turned to her wine goblet and took another sip. "So you mentioned."

****

The chest was as he left it:  full of miscellaneous trophies, junk, and the occasional bottle of vintage wine. At the very bottom was his leather armor from Kaer Morhen; dusty, but still serviceable, and no worse off from its time in storage.

He wandered back upstairs, away from prying eyes, and shed his bloodied jerkin, replacing it with the Kaer Morhen armor. It chafed in places he didn't remember and somehow didn't feel as durable, but seeing as he had no alternative it would have to do; at least until he found time to clean the other.

With his bloody armor tucked under an arm he headed to the ground floor, barely casting a glance at Lambert and Olgierd sharing a pint.

Olgierd was the first to catch sight of him. "Geralt!" He bellowed over the general clamor. "Where you off to?"

"Out."

"I can see that much." Olgierd said, no longer shouting as he drew closer. The once-immortal blocked Geralt’s way, intentionally placing himself in way of the exit. "Weren't the whole point of this little journey to meet up with that sorceress lass of yours. Seems a tad odd to be leaving so soon."

" _Agreed."_ Came Cregennan's unneeded input.

The corner of Geralt's lip twitched.

Olgierd crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight side-to-side. "Let me guess? She couldn't help you, at least not right away."

"Your point?"

"My point Geralt, is whatever is going on with you, you seem quite opposed to staying in one place long. One might even say you're running away from something."

The last remark drew a reaction. Geralt's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer.

Unfazed, Olgierd spoke. "Without those cat eyes of yours, you aren't nearly as intimidating as you think you are."

"Move Olgierd."

"Why Geralt?"

"You're in my way."

Olgierd tsked. "What are you so afraid of that you can't trust us?"

No words were exchanged as Geralt pushed Olgierd aside, and continued towards the cabaret's exit. The door opened, and Geralt walked outside.

"It seems Adelia isn't the only stubborn one." He heard Olgierd grumble after him.

* * *

Regis and Ciri appeared behind the Chameleon, their unexpected arrival startling a few stray dogs that were fighting over the prior-day's leftovers.

"Whooph." Breathed Regis, feeling mildly green. "I believe that will be enough for one day. I don't think I can handle much more."

"But it's only been the fourth place we've looked." Insisted Ciri, though she too was beginning to feel exhausted.

The vampire chuckled at her enthusiasm. "And we've already covered more ground in a day then many would hope to see in their lifetime. I know you're eager to find Yennefer, but you shan't do it falling ov-" The words stopped in his throat, as Ciri disappeared towards the cabaret's entrance. He readjusted his satchel and chased after her, muttering something about reckless children.

****

As he rounded the corner, he spied a few interesting things. One being Geralt, unmistakable from his scent - albeit the smell strongly masked by bear blood and something the high vampire couldn't quite place - now sporting nearly crimson hair. The second being Yennefer herself, hands on hips simultaneously scolding Ciri and yelling at said witcher. And topping things off, another witcher, mug of beer in one hand and a comely blond woman reeking of magic wrapped in the other.

Not sure how to approach the situation, his centuries of experience hadn't quite seen such a bizarre set of circumstances, Regis decidedly approached the group slowly, cleared his throat, and waited to be acknowledged.

Yennefer was the first. "And you!" She admonished the vampire. "You were supposed to watch her!"

"I did and I continue to do so. If it were your intentions that I keep her to the palace grounds, then you should have instructed me to do so." Regis asserted calmly.

"… And now you get Regis involved." Geralt snarled, untying his horse's reins from a post.

Yennefer's eyes snapped back to the witcher. "Only because you left me no choice."

"You say that like this is all my fault."

"If you weren't so damn prideful…"

"Then what Yen? This could all have been avoided?" In one smooth motion, Geralt swung himself into the saddle. He tugged on the reins turning his reluctant horse away from the cabaret, and clicked his tongue. "Let's go Ro-"

The witcher spun in his seat, a momentary flash of orange surrounded his person. His uncharacteristically dark eyes met Yennefer's with a sense of betrayal. From her outstretched hand it is evident that she had tried to cast something on him.  _Something that had failed._

And poor Ciri, caught up in the middle of this complicated lover's spat. Regis typically wasn't one to interfere, but he currently was obligated to look after Ciri's well-being.

****

An instant later he was in front of Geralt's galloping horse, Regis' usual nondescript countenance changing to one of imposing supernatural prowess.

The horse - not wanting to have anything to do with the vampire's sudden and frightening appearance - reared, depositing her rider onto the stonework bridge. "Regis!" Geralt hollered, rapidly regaining his feet, hand already going for his sword.

That was all the vampire allowed the witcher - who smelled distinctly…  _human_ , his usual artificially-mixed scent missing.

The witcher hadn't even registered that Regis had moved behind him, Geralt's usual lightning fast reflexes a mere flicker of what they once were.

 _Perhaps…_ thought Regis.

Faster than human eyes could track, the barber-surgeon dug a hand into his satchel; his other going for the handkerchief tucked in his shirt's inner lining. A single movement later, the vampire doused the fabric with the anesthetic and held the strongly smelling square of linen over Geralt's nose and mouth.

Geralt bucked, trying to dislodge the vampire's hand from his face, an elbow wedging deep into Regis' gut. The vampire grunted, but held firm. It was only a matter of time before the witcher had to breath.

Again Geralt squirmed, his pinned arms trying vainly to pry himself from the barber-surgeon's vice-like grip. Finally, Regis heard a breath. The witcher's struggles slowed, eventually petering out completely.

Regis knew that dwale normally wouldn't work on the witcher, but as he hefted Geralt's limp body over his shoulder, it was clear that it had.

A crow landed along the bridge's wall and croaked its arrival to the vampire. As the black bird delivered its ill tidings, Regis' mood visibly darkened. It was as he had suspected. Geralt's pursuers had found them. If they were to be any help to the weakened witcher they would first have to get him out of Redania.

They needed to get him farther than a magpie could possibly travel… They needed to get him across the sea, and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwale: an anesthetic potion used in medieval medicine, containing bile, opium, lettuce, bryony, and hemlock. Some sources seem to say it could have also been made out of belladonna (a.k.a. deadly nightshade).  
> 


	15. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Occasionally I find time manipulation irresistible. Controlling it offers so many appetizing opportunities."_ \- The Man of Glass

Consciousness greeted Geralt with a pounding headache. The witcher put a hand to his throbbing head and tried to sit up, finding the task difficult with the ground heaving. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he was finally upright.

Leaning back against the damp wood, he listened to the sound of distant footsteps, waves breaking against the ship's hull, and the ever-constant creaking of wood. Despite Geralt's diminished sense of smell, a salty brine was thick in the air and seemed to cling to everything.

He opened his eyes. Moonlight filtered through criss-crossed wooden slats, leaving little squares of silver light against the brig’s paneled floor. Heavy iron bars ran from floor to ceiling, separating the witcher from the rest of the hull. To his right sat another cell. Empty.

" _Not what you were expecting?_ "

"What part? The prison cell?" The witcher shrugged even if Cregennan couldn't see the action. "I suspected as much when I drew my sword on Regis."

" _No…_ "

"Then what?" Geralt said with mild irritation. But they both knew what Cregennan meant, what Geralt had been thinking about for the past while; how he felt betrayed by those he trusted - those he tried to distance so they wouldn't get involved, those that he wouldn't be able to keep… _alive_.

" _Your regret is eating away at you._ " The concern in Cregennan's voice was painted with hints of sadness.

Geralt couldn't think of a way to respond. Of a way to guard his fears from the unintended guest in his head. So, he remained silent, his thoughts equally so.

" _Vesemir's death weighs heavily on your mind, even though there was nothing you could have done. Do you regret your choices that led to that outcome?_ "

“Every day.”

Cregennan paused, as if weighing a monumental decision, before speaking again. " _Do you wish you could alter Vesemir's fate?_ "

Now it was Geralt's turn to pause. _What was Cregennan after? What admission could Geralt give that the spirit didn't already know?_

Cregennan remained uncharacteristically quiet to these questions, perhaps waiting until Geralt gave him a proper response.

Barely above a whisper, Geralt gave his answer. "Of course."

" _What if there was a way to go back, knowing what you know now? As you are now?_ "

Geralt quirked a brow, his curiosity somewhat stirred. "What are you getting at?"

" _My beloved, Lara… you have heard of the elder blood, yes?_ "

Oh, Geralt had heard of it all right. It was the very same blood that flowed through Ciri – Lara Dorren's blood. The cursed blood that had drawn the Wild Hunt to Ciri in the first place.

" _I had studied her power, her ability to leap through space and time. I thought of how to confine that gift of hers to just one point in space, but infinite places in time. I was young, curious and so very foolish. I had tampered with something I should never have, thinking of only its academic applications. It had not occurred to me what other uses it might have._ "

"You were successful?"

" _Extraordinarily so. Not only could I send a living person into the past, but the small changes I had made were permanent._ "

"Permanent, meaning…?"

" _An altered design on the tapestry of fate. By using my soul as an anchor, if you will, I created a protective space which would isolate a traveler from the altered time… a precaution as it were to prevent the manipulated past from unraveling destiny completely._ "

"And that is what Skj'aera is after?"

" _Precisely. Our enemy hopes to undo the mistakes of their ancestors. To prevent the blight_ – _what they consider the human race_ – _from ever getting a foothold._ "

It took awhile, but amid the gentle sway of the ship, Geralt found his voice again. "This _thing_ you created. Would it work as they hope?"

" _Exactly as they hope._ "

"And you're the key?”

" _Unfortunately_."

At least Geralt now knew why he was being pursued. He sighed. Part of him had already known. The dream he had seen so many nights ago now; it hadn't been a dream, but rather Cregennan's memory.

"The gate. Where…" The sound of footsteps approaching from above deck interrupted Geralt's question.

A figure emerged into the warm circle of a single candle. "Hey Geralt." As always, the poet was dressed in vibrant colors.

"Dandelion."

"You doing alright?" The troubadour asked tentatively, the white feather in his equally garish cap bobbing with the motion of his head.

Not bothering to stand for his visitor, the witcher responded. "What do you think?"

"Right, dumb question…" Dandelion glanced at the iron bars as if seeing them for the first time. "Red's a new look for you."

"Why are you here Dandelion?" Geralt intended to sound more irritated than he did, but he was tired – exhausted from just about everything.

Always keen to hear his own voice, Dandelion happily replied, "Oh you know, just checking on how my best pal is doing. You wouldn't believe the wonders the ship's cook can come up with. Just the other…"

"Dandelion." Interrupted Geralt. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

The witcher's tone had no effect on the troubadour, Dandelion knew Geralt too well to be fazed by his attitude. "I was worried Geralt. We all are. Heck, Ciri would be here with me if she weren't so concerned about you being mad with her for abandoning her duties…"

"I’m not mad at her…" _Just disappointed_.

"I know that. But I don't think she does…"

"What about the others?"

"Well, Yennefer along with Ciri, Lambert, and Keira are giving us a day's head start before teleporting to Skellige. Your new friend Olgierd sworn off magic for good so he's on the ship with you, and Regis said any further teleportation would do horrible things to his constitution, so I'm guessing he's here as well." Dandelion looked down at the fingers he'd been counting off on trying to determine if there was anyone he forgot to mention. After a moment, he shrugged then swung his arms idly by his side.

"So now what? You going to let me out of here?"

"You know I'd love to Geralt, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because you're still asleep."

Before Geralt could ask what the poet meant, another voice filled the space. " _I'm afraid so. It took a bit to figure it out myself_." The voice was unmistakable, as it shared headspace with the witcher for so long.

"Cregennan?" The appearance of the cloaked mage surprised Geralt, more so in that he finally had a face to put to the voice in his head.

The man nodded, his hood slipping from his head to reveal a tight crop of brown curls and bright hazel eyes. " _It would appear so_." A mischievous smirk, so reminiscent of Ciri's own, was set on his angular features. The man knelt in front of Geralt's cell and wrapped a hand around one of its bars.

The witcher eyed the mage with mild curiosity. "So you're not really here either?"

" _Oh, I am. I must hand it to that vampire fellow. The stuff he knocked you out with knocked me clear unconscious as well. All for the better really_."

"Meaning?"

" _My magical signature should be harder to trace now – that and the change in boats halfway to our destination_ _should buy us ample time to prepare_."

"Wait," Geralt pulled himself away from the ship's wooden wall. "If you’re unconscious too, then how do you know what's going on?"

" _The same way you do, I suppose. You may be sleeping but your ears are still working, though I guess from your standpoint it's much more subconscious_."

"Dandelion's not 'here' as well is he?"

_"No. Mentioned something Priscilla being with child. He did however help arrange for the transportation."_

The fake Dandelion nodded his head and looked faintly solemn as if acknowledging that the world had lost a great lover.

The news caught the witcher off guard. "Congrats I guess," he said to Dandelion, quickly turning his attention back to Cregennan. "But then why's he here?" Geralt jabbed a thumb in the poet's direction.

_"Perhaps you needed someone to talk to."_

The witcher grunted then leaned back against the wall.

The mage stood, and pulled up his hood. " _I'll leave you two alone. You have some time before you'll be waking up anyway. Who knows, it might even be… therapeutic_."

****

This time, when Geralt awoke, he found he was not in fact in the ship's brig, but on hammock in the ship's sleeping quarters. He did, however, still have a pounding headache.

"Careful – you're not completely clear of the dwale. I may have misjudged to dosage slightly." Regis' voice sounded apologetic, despite every word grinding against the witcher's eardrums.

"Not s'loud." Geralt slurred in his partially drugged state, instantly regretting opening his mouth as his own voice wasn't much quieter.

"Ah. I should have something to help with that issue." This time Regis' voice came was softer. After a brief period of bottles clinking and rustling dried herbs and paper packets, Regis offered the witcher a scrap of tree bark. "White willow. For the headache," he explained briefly, as Geralt took the small piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing on the rough bark.

Within minutes the pain lessened, and Geralt spat out the soggy remnants. "Thanks."

Regis nodded, then rose from the barrel he sat on. "We will be arriving soon."

"Right." With a grunt, Geralt rose from the hammock - well, tried to rise – and instead spilled out of it to the floor below.

"Would you like some assistance?" inquired Regis, his head looming into Geralt's view of the decking above.

Reluctantly, Geralt accepted Regis' extended hand. Not a word was exchanged between them as Geralt brushed the dirt from his pants when he was finally upright.

On wobbly legs, Geralt made it up to the top deck, taking in the view of Kaer Trolde's bustling harbor from the ship's rail.

"Trade's been doing well as of late," added Regis' voice to the general clamor of the nearby sailors preparing the ship for docking.

"Mhm," agreed Geralt, noting that the pier was significantly less active during his prior visit. "Cerys knows what she's doing. Always has."

"Perhaps, but if the tales are to be believed; you had a hand in getting her on the throne."

"Mmm." _It was either her or her hot-headed brother._

"You might not realize it Geralt, but many are indebted to you. You have allies – friends even."

The witcher turned to look at the vampire. "And where do you fall? If I remember, things didn't exactly work out for both you and Dettlaff." Breaking eye contact, Geralt looked back over the water and sighed.

Regis shifted, adjusting his satchel. His gaze moved to the people busying themselves along the pier. "You at least gave him a chance to confront Syanna. That's more than I could have asked for. It was his rage that blinded him and caused his…," the vampire paused, then glanced back at Geralt, "…untimely demise. I don't see how you could have done any different given the circumstances."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Geralt, that night I had to make a choice: honor my blood-brother's judgment, or save an old friend. You know the result of that decision. You know where I stand."

Geralt remained silent, his fingers curling around the wooden railing.

Regis leaned back. "Well, enough talk. I think they're setting out the gangplank. I see our escort waiting on the pier."

"Great," muttered the witcher, as he caught sight of the Hjalmar an Craite, the man's left arm wrapped with the red and black colors of his clan. Geralt envied the man's heavy fur-lined gambeson, as Skellige's infamously cold mountain wind hit the ocean spray still clinging to his body.

****

Olgierd met up with Regis and Geralt on the gangplank, the once-immortal just stepping away from a rather rowdy game of gwent. A trail of insults and thrown bottles followed after him.

"You're certainly popular," Geralt couldn't help commenting, as a brown glass bottle nearly collided with his head.

Olgierd made a dismissive noise. "Just a bunch of sore losers. They'll get over it," he said, pocketing his engorged coin-pouch.

****

"Geralt. Good t' see ye again. Yer sorceress weren' kidding 'bout the red hair. Doubt they'd be able to call you _white_ wolf after this," teased Hjalmar, each of the large man's meaty hands returning to rest on his sides. "Friends o' yours?" he asked, gesturing to the men following behind the witcher.

"Ah, yes… Regis…," Geralt replied, nodding towards the vampire, "and Olgierd," he added, nodding similarly towards the once-immortal.

"Well friends of the Geralt's are friends of mine." Hjalmar clasped his hands together. "As much as I enjoy shootin' the breeze wit' ye, we'd better be headin' up to the keep. I think the ladies are gettin' a wee bit antsy."


	16. Skellige's Army

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"I'm no cheat. I give folks what they want, nothing more. That they oft desire unworthy things - that is entirely that fault of their rotten natures."_ \- Master Mirror

The last of the morning's light poured in through the tall south-facing windows, and a fire burning in the large stone hearth chased away its chill.

Yennefer tapped the rough-hewn table's surface idly. Both her and Skellige's current queen, Cerys an Craite, were waiting anxiously for Hjalmar's return,  _hopefully with that stubborn witcher in tow_.

The discussion had already ground to a standstill mainly because of the distrust the Skelliger had towards the sorceress - not that Yennefer had put much effort into building that trust over recent years.

Once again, the sorceress' eyes strayed around the keep's main hall. Its practical furnishings emphasised Cerys' function-over-form aesthetic, which was evident even in her current attire. The queen's only embellishments were the ornamental stitching along the edges of her blue sleeves and a red-checkered scarf wrapped across the left side of her metal breastplate.

The sound of footsteps made both women perk up, but when the steps faded down the opposite hallway, they returned to their semi-bored state.

Yennefer laid her head in her hands. Her tolerance for boredom had exceeded its limits. A glance across the table at Cerys made it clear that the queen was losing her patience as well.

Cerys curled her tapping fingers into a fist and slammed them down on the table. "So help me, if someone doesn't come through that door soon, I'm goin' a head to those damn docks myself."

"Ah sister, is that anyway fer a queen t’ be actin' now?" came Hjalmar's stern, yet suspiciously playful tone.

"Hjalmar, yer lucky I don' tie yer arse astern of a schooner for a few gos 'round the isles fer how long it took ye."

The chestnut-haired giant seemed unconcerned by his younger sister's threat, even though she could make the threat very real if she were so inclined. "Aye, but if I drown, you'll be down a fighter, and a fairly good one if I do say so m'self."

"Yer so full of it..." Cerys countered, rolling her eyes slightly.

Yennefer stopped listening to the siblings' banter as soon as she caught sight of Geralt, his striking crimson hair still catching her off-guard. She rose, and slipped around the bench she had been sitting on.

"Geralt-" The raven-haired sorceress stopped herself, noting that the witcher was looking past her into the nearly empty hall.

"The others?" he asked, with no hint of annoyance in his voice. It was just regular Geralt,  _a man of few words_. She tucked her hands into the crooks of her elbows.

While he said  _others_ , Geralt really only wanted to know where one person was. "Ciri's out by the blacksmith's. She said the sound of the hammer on anvil would help her calm down." As the witcher turned to leave, Yennefer caught his hand. "I've already scolded her -- told her that she needed to mind her station and not go chasing after stubborn old witchers." Subconsciously, she gave his hand a small squeeze.

He turned back to face her, and rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. His expression told her that he was trying to find the right words, but Geralt settled on silence, his eyes drifting to the ground. A stray cough, the clack of beer steins being set down, and the moment between them was over. Geralt pulled away, his hand returning to his side.

Something troubling pulled at the corner of his lip, his thoughts quickly moving elsewhere.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing that he wouldn't share unless she pushed.

Geralt sighed. "Cregennan finally decided to share, it's…" another sigh, "Not good."

"Is he…?"

"He's listening."

"Can I?"

"Go ahead."

* * *

Words spilled from his lips, and at a certain point Geralt was sure he was just acting as a go-between for Yennefer and Cregennan, and at some point, for those listening in from the table. At least Cregennan had an easier time explaining the whole conundrum to everyone. The witcher would have been at a loss on where to start.

When the story was finished, and Cregennan seemingly settled back into the crevices of Geralt's mind, Yennefer was downright flabbergasted – perhaps even a bit distraught. At least Geralt thought she was. _Hard to tell when a simple sigh settled her countenance back to a safe neutral._ The rest of the party were at least little more obvious about showing their shock.

"Geralt," said Cerys as she stood slowly. "I wasn't able to help ye last time ye came calling, but I can make it up to ye this time. Consider the full Military might of the Isles with ye."

Hjalmar laughed as his mug slamming down beside Cerys' hand. "Aye, if this is anything like the last romp, we're in fer a mighty good fight. Ye can count on me!"

"Why the hell not, I've come this far haven't I?" pitched in Olgierd.

Regis nodded, the vampire not quite wanting to add his own sentiments out loud.

"End of the world?" Lambert's sudden voice, surprised the group. He must have come in with Keira while everyone was distracted. "I'm in. Can't let you hog all the glory."

"Seems like it's settled then." Yennefer affirmed, appraising the individuals around her.

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck, another headache was already looming. Each pair of eyes was on him. Each face radiated warmth and support. He glanced over his shoulder past the hall's pillars to catch Ciri peering in, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

****

_This could work... at least in theory it could work._

Cerys was downfield, where they decided to set up, giving her warriors a good pep-talk. From the hearty shouts, clanging of swords against shields, and thumping of axe butts against the ground it seemed to be going well.

To Geralt's left, Olgierd had been busy making fast friends with Hjalmar, which was not surprising considering their similar personalities. A few feet from the loud pair stood Regis, simply content to watch.

A select few already know what he is - at Regis' own insistence for when the fighting starts. However, that did not stop the natural apprehension people have with his presence, so the vampire kept his distance.

Geralt looked to where Yennefer stood with Lambert, Keira, and Ciri. The raven-haired sorceress beckoned him over. He jogged slightly to quickly close the distance.

"Everything  _should_ be ready." Yennefer said as the witcher slowed his approach.

"Should?"

"No one knows for certain how quickly Skj'aera will detect Cregennan," confessed Keira.

"Then all this preparation isn’t required?" asked Lambert, earning a quirked eyebrow from Yennefer.

"Not necessarily." The raven-haired sorceress said slowly, daring the other witcher to continue about unneeded preparations – fortunately, Lambert wasn't that stupid. She continued. "The enemy has teleportation capabilities, that much was clear from Geralt's recollection. Getting here for them would be a matter of seconds."

"I thought portals with unknown destinations were difficult to set up." Geralt interjected.

"They won't have an unknown destination."

"Oh?"

"We're going to amplify Cregennan's magical signature, making it much easier for any tracer to be able to exact a location."

At this point, Ciri decided to pipe up. "Wouldn't that put Geralt right in the middle of everything?"

"Don't worry, we've addressed that." Yennefer assured the young empress. "With some minor cooperation from the rest of the lodge, we've managed to adjust the Xenovox's purpose. Instead of just broadcasting voice we can channel magic, creating a decoy."

"You think they'd fall for it?" Geralt still wasn't convinced.

"No idea. We just have to hope that Skj'aera will take the bait."

Those words weren't the most encouraging to hear, and from the disillusioned looks of the others, it was clear that his sentiments were echoed.

All, save for Cregennan.

" _Skj'aera will act. He'll be afraid of us going into hiding again._ "

_Wouldn't there be other opportunities?_

" _He won't risk us trying to separate. With the Saov Llestr broken he has no means to keep me contained. I no longer have a body to be called back to._ "

_Then why didn't you suggest that? We could still avoid confrontation._

" _He wouldn't give us the time. Besides he already knows we're in Skellige._ "

_How?_

" _You think sailors can't be bribed or coerced? Your friends could only buy us so much time._ "

"Geralt?" Yennefer brushed his arm, drawing his eyes away from a distant snow-capped mountain. "Its partner is already in place..."

It was now that the witcher noticed the familiar box in her hands. She held out the Xenovox, waiting for him to take it. "If you are ready, we can start."

He took the metal box. "Alright, I'm ready."

****

A horn blew across the field, signaling the start of the upcoming battle. A quiet chill, not due to the cool Skellige air, settled upon everyone.

"Lambert," called Geralt.

"What?"

"Here."

The other witcher caught the three vials tossed his way. A quick glance showed what their contents where: the witcher potions Geralt concocted so long ago.

Considering Geralt's current situation, the potions could prove fatal. "They're more useful to you," he admitted.

Lambert nodded, then turned forward again, noting the darkening sky. "Looks like its starting."

It started as a ripple, a shimmer in the air, quickly expanding to a gaping wound. The change was met with shifting stances, and creaking leather.

Geralt drew his own steel out of habit, despite the concerned looks the enchanted sabre drew from his peers.

A torrent of arrows felled the closest few – mainly those who chose to not use a shield. The second volley was met with better resistance. There wasn’t a third.

As bloodlust filled the air, a growl rose to a roar, shaking the Skellige hillside. The Skelligers were riled, their warrior blood burning. The berserkers strung along the frontlines had shed their human skins, transforming into massive bears that charged the portal. There was no hope of stopping the coming bloodshed.

In a deafening thunderclap, the first waves passed through the portal. Human steel clashed against elven. With the next waves, the enemy had pushed past the frontline.

The witcher moved, catching his nearest opponents off guard. Iris cut them down, not caring for the chainmail rings that shattered and sprinkled the trampled grass with silver rounds. For now, Regis restrained his inhuman side, relying instead on the shortsword he had procured earlier. The others seemed to be faring as well, if not better. The fighters matched blow for blow, while the sorceresses managed to keep enough distance from the fray to cast counter-spells to those that threatened to turn the tide.

Everything seemed to be going well for once, that is, until a red mist dashed through the lines felling those unfortunate enough to be in its path, both friend and foe alike.

"Witcher…" A voice hissed, surprisingly loud despite the sounds of battle. The witcher whirled cleaving an arm. The unsuspecting elf writhed with pain, dropping his sword to clutch at the missing limb. "Witcher." It whispered again, this time much closer and much more sinisterly. A brief stab through the neck ended the elf's cries.

"Geralt!" The witcher's head whipped up just in time to catch pale skin and dark hair materializing above him.

 _Dettlaff_?  _How-_? Was all his brain could supply before elongated fangs and dagger-length claws fell upon him. He felt a shove, and half-stumbled out of the way of the enraged vampire.

Instead of Geralt's throat, Olgierd's had sacrificed his. The once immortal instinctively clamped a hand to his neck, the bright red slipping through his fingers. Each breath became a wheeze, then a steady gurgle as blood trickled from the corner of his lips. His bright hazel eyes grew dim and Geralt could only watch helplessly as Olgierd collapsed to the ground before Dettlaff attacked again.

The witcher raised his sword, but it was easily knocked away. A strong hand wrapped around Geralt's neck, lifting him to his toes as his hands clawed at the vampire's tightening grip.

Dettlaff leaned in close, jagged teeth dragging roughly across his skin. "They wanted me to bring you back alive, but I think we both know that's not going to happen…"

There was a blur of claws and fangs and Geralt was released, its suddenness making him stagger.

Regis had saved him…  _again_.

The witcher coughed as he rubbed at his raw neck. His fingers came away damp, but the wound was nothing serious.

A quick glance to his surroundings told him where his fallen sword was, and the witcher retrieved it just in time to block an incoming blow. The elf's sword shattered on Geralt's counter strike, leaving the elf with nothing to stop Iris' enchanted blade from splitting his skull.

"Regis," howled Dettlaff, as he lunged for the barber surgeon. "After all I've done for you!"

One look at Regis' face, and it was clear the words stung. Regis said nothing, instead turning his focus to avoiding Dettlaff's claws and trying to get in his own hits. Dettlaff lunged at the barber surgeon, his claws grazing Regis' cheek as he caught a similar injury to his shoulder.

The longer the vampires fought, the more inhuman their appearances became. Large leathery wings ripped from their backs, shredding pale skin and dark clothes alike. Their human features melted into grotesque mimicries – elongated mouths, shriveled bat-like noses, and smooth translucent skin where eyes had been.

Geralt could only catch glimpses of the fight, his eyes unable to keep up with the lightning speed of the two vampires. From the quick flashes he could catch, both vampires seemed to be on even footing. Each managed to keep their breathing steady, despite the constant flow of blood spilling from their bodies; despite the ground growing slick with the nearly black liquid.

All it took was a simple oversight on Regis' part. One of Dettlaff's extra appendages nicked Regis across a half-morphed eyesocket, momentarily blinding him and causing the barber surgeon to slow down. With a backhanded swing, Dettlaff slammed Regis into a nearby pine tree, hard enough to temporarily stun him.

Geralt braced himself as Dettlaff turned his attention towards the witcher. Claws shrieked against steel, as the witcher diverted the other vampire's swipe. He just barely managed to fend off the second, his bones shuddering under the strain. Fortunately, Regis had recovered enough to take over.

"You are becoming a nuisance." Dettlaff ground out between razor-fangs, his voice sounding closer to guttural growls. "Back down traitor. I'll deal with you later."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that."

"You would betray me once more, Regis? For this...  _human_?"

"He is my friend."

"As was I." Dettlaff descended upon the pair, his rage only worsened by the exchanged dialogue.

The witcher tried to cast Yrden in attempt to slow Dettlaff, but the spell lasted no more than a second, leaving him drained from the attempt.

Regis pushed himself harder to compensate for Geralt's weakness and there was only so long the barber surgeon could keep up the new pace.

It pained the witcher to be such a burden.

There was a reason witchers were created and Geralt's currently human body was not designed for fighting monsters. Despite Regis' best efforts to protect the witcher, Dettlaff scored the occasional hit. A cut on his cheek, a gash running near his belly, and a particularly bad wound across his forearm. Neither enough to be fatal, but the impact of each added up.

Geralt could feel himself slowing and he couldn't afford the loss, not when he already wasn't fast enough.

One slight misstep cost everything. In an attempt to stop an incoming blow that Geralt had no way to avoid, Regis overextended himself, leaving him vulnerable.

Dettlaff took his opportunity, piercing his claws through the barber surgeon's exposed chest, the white nails spraying black-crimson as they emerged from Regis' back. The other vampire clenched and with an animalistic glee ripped his hand back, leaving a gaping hole where Regis' heart had been.

Regis wasn't about to let it end there. He hurled himself at Dettlaff and in a tangle of snarls had the vampire pinned beneath him.

"Again?" Dettlaff questioned, somehow content with his fate.

"I am sorry."

A cruel smile arose on Dettlaff's monstrous visage as Regis' fangs sunk into his neck and began drinking. Within minutes the deed was done. The fiendish shape quickly shrunk in on itself, until nothing remained but bones.

Regis rose - his form more or less resembling something human, despite the prevalent hole in his chest. "Something's wrong," he muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth with the edge of a sleeve. "His body should still-"

Pain suddenly teased the edges of Regis' face before the vampire toppled over. Geralt rushed to help his friend, but Regis held up a hand to warn him back.

Black veins protruded from his skin, and the blood leaking from his wound bubbled and hissed against the grass. Black ichor dripped from Regis' mouth, and his stomach heaved to expel more of the foul substance. Convulsions shook the vampire's body as his claws raked the ground in an attempt to escape the anguish.

 _Black blood_. The witcher recognized the potion's symptoms. Very effective against Necrophages and...  _vampires_. In small doses it deterred such beasts from trying to drink a witcher's blood again,  _but for a whole body's worth?_ There was no antidote. There had been no need.

Geralt grimaced.  _They had known. Somehow they had known about Regis, and what he was_. Dettlaff had been their trap, and it had succeeded.

There was a drawn-out whistle followed by the sound of jeers and ridicule. For now, it seemed that they had driven back the enemy. The elves were retreating. The witcher looked to where his friend lay possibly breathing his last. He couldn't feel the same exuberance. His arm throbbed, reminding him of his own injuries. He chose to ignore it.

Instead, Geralt searched the battlefield for the others.

****

Lambert was the first one he found. He was limping and an arrow was protruding from his shoulder. Otherwise the other witcher looked fine.

"Where's Olgierd?"

Geralt looked away.

"Regis?"

Reluctantly, the witcher shook his head. "He's poisoned. Someone got their hands on Black Blood."

Lambert harshly sucked in air through his teeth. "He's a higher vampire… he might be able to pull through. Do you know who the poor bastard he drank dry was at least?"

"Another high vampire."

Lambert wiped a hand down his face, clearly at a loss of what to say. "Wait... how could a high vampire survive having black blood in its veins?" The confusion was evident on Lambert's face.

"Necromancy." It wasn't impossible and with the unusual corpse left and Dettlaff's lack of symptoms, it was highly likely.

"Damn." The other witcher tsked. "Let's check on the women. Hopefully, they fared better."

****

Things could have been better. Keira's hair was matted with blood from an injury along her temple that had just clotted. Yennefer stood over her nursing the wound, disregarding the cuts on her own porcelain skin.

Geralt didn't see Ciri. "Yen."

The raven-haired sorceress looked up, her violet eyes tired.

"Where is Ciri?"

"I lost sight of her. We were overrun. I'm sorry Geralt."

 _I'm sorry..._ He turned away, a panic suddenly gripping him.

His feet stumbled over bodies as he started yelling Ciri's name. There was no sign of her. His wounds started hurting again, but it was nothing compared to the vice squeezing his heart.

Lambert hobbled up to him. "Geralt. She could have teleported away. She might be alright."

Geralt shrugged Lambert's reassuring hand away.  _No. No. No. No._ His mind raced. He couldn't lose her.  _Where is she? Where-_

The harsh chatter of a magpie caught his attention. The black and white bird circled overhead once, before heading south and circling again. It seemed to be waiting for him.

His eyes narrowed. A sharp whistle brought Roach out from behind some close trees, and he swung into her saddle refusing to acknowledge Lambert's words, refusing to heed Cregennan's whispered warnings. Geralt kicked his heels into Roach's sides and galloped after the bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters left!!! Let's see how fast it takes me to get them out.
> 
> It's gonna get worse before it gets better, so hang onto your butts people.


	17. Duel with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to way more Two Steps From Hell to write this than should be healthy, and holy pooh I did not think this chapter would be as long as it ended up. Good news for you guys… bad news for my beta.  
> This chapter might be a little rough, but I promise there will be a happy ending… eventually… next chapter. Pinky promise.

Roach's hooves pounded the earth. Flecks of white foam speckled her black muzzle and flanks, and she had started panting horribly. Still, Geralt pushed her on, not wanting to lose sight of the magpie soaring above.

Ducking under branches and low-hanging limbs, the pair flew over rocks, fallen trees, and roots.

_Faster. Faster. Faster._

Roach seemed to echo Geralt's thoughts, her hooves kicking up a whirlwind of debris, not once slowing her breakneck speed through the mountain pass.

_Faster._

The magpie was always just ahead of them. Just out of reach, taunting them, daring them to go even faster on the treacherous terrain. Geralt bent low in the saddle; trying to reduce drag despite the agony it brought to the wound on his stomach.

He grew blind to his body's torment, his world blurred and Cregennan's increasingly frequent concerns were lost to the wind whistling by his ears.

 _He couldn't lose her._ He couldn't bear to. Nothing else mattered _. He had to save her. He had to-_

Roach landed her jump awkwardly, twisting an ankle and throwing Geralt from the saddle. He curled on himself to avoid Roach landing on him as she fell to her side. She brayed once - the sound almost apologetic as Geralt pushed himself to his feet.

The witcher checked the sky for the damned magpie. It was still there, just barely a black dot amid the ocean of blue and white clouds.

Roach struggled to find her footing, pain evident in her every attempt to stand.

Geralt searched once more for the magpie. It was getting smaller by the second. He couldn’t risk losing any more time.

_I'm sorry._

He charged after it, leaving Roach to fend for herself. The echoes of her anguished cries lingered long after she was out of sight.

****

His heart was near bursting, his legs were bundles of fiery nerves, and his breathing labored.

He pushed back branches, and clambered over stone. Each obstruction only taking more time away from him, more energy he needed to save her. He had to keep moving; couldn't afford to rest.

Geralt looked upward, noting that the magpie had slowed just enough to keep pace. It gave a choked warble then began a slow circle over the area ahead.

_Must be close._

His steel slid from its sheath, its blade glowing red from the anticipated bloodshed. The witcher calmed his breath and stepped out of the brush cautiously.

Skj'aera was there to greet him, his grey cloak wrapped tightly around his thin shoulders. "Witcher, I'm glad you could finally join us."

"It wasn't as if you gave me much of a choice."

The elf shrugged, a dangerous shine in his almond shaped eyes. "Yes, well that was the intention."

"Where is she?" growled the witcher.

"Safe, for now. It all depends on your level of cooperation." The elven mage batted away the sabre held in front of his face with his staff.

Much to Geralt's own annoyance, he let him, the sabre instead angling downward clenched in a tight fist.

A smug look of superiority crossed the elf's features, as he made a quick gesture to someone behind him. "I'm glad to see that you can be reasoned with after all."

The witcher's ears perked at the sound of rough shoving and Ciri's strong voice. "Let go of me!"

Geralt's eyes followed the shapes emerging into the clearing. Ciri's face was battered and her hair matted. It hurt to look at her, but it hurt even more to look away.

Their eyes met, and Ciri called out to him. "Geralt!"

 _Ciri._ " _Lara._ "

The pain doubled in his heart, shared by Cregennan's own distress.

_Why doesn't she teleport away?_

" _Likely the same reason why Lara couldn't. The gate draws in magic to sustain itself. She won't be able to as long as she is this close to it._ "

_The gate…?_

The witcher scanned the clearing again. Tall slender brass poles rose from the ground, each carrying a basin of blue fire. Amid the rows rested a wooden slab atop a stone. The slab, worn from age, bore its ancient markings proudly.

Cregennan shifted uncomfortably in Geralt's head, confirming the witcher's assumption.

"Let her go." Commanded the witcher, his fingers numbing from how tightly he held Iris.

"We will, only after you do something for us first."

His nostrils flared. "Which is?"

"The altar. I want you to kneel at it."

The witcher looked at the stone again, his eyes flicking between it and the elves that surrounded them.

Skj'eara noticed Geralt's indecision. "Make a scene here Witcher, and the girl _will_ die."

As if to make a point, Geralt heard shifting among the trees and the glint of arrowheads as bows were drawn. They weren't aimed at him, but at Ciri. He couldn't get to her on time if he chose to act against.

Geralt relented. He sheathed his blade, and knelt in front of the makeshift altar.

 _He almost lost her to the White Frost, letting her go through that portal almost killed him. He couldn't risk her again. Instead he would give the world to keep her safe, even if for just a moment longer_. _It owed him that much at least._

"You can't!" Ciri pushed at the hands holding her, twisting free of their grip. "Don't do this Geralt!" She cried, her arms reaching for him. "Ger-"

Ciri's plea was cut short, her movements frozen. The wind had stilled, with it, the surrounding forest sounds.

Nothing moved. Not even the elves that struggled to contain the wriggling empress.

A slow clap rose and quickened until it was a full applause. It stopped abruptly, as a voice filled the emptiness.

"It's all so very touching. Wouldn't you agree Geralt? Humans, elves, dwarves you are all so very predictable."

Geralt could honestly say not much frightened him, but he couldn't help the shiver that ran up his spine when he recognized the condescending voice. "Why are you here O'Dimm?"

The Man of Glass quirked a smile - as like last time, his features were deceptively nondescript. "If that is how you greet an old friend, it's a wonder you have any at all." O'Dimm steepled his fingers together, the tips touching through his fingerless gloves.  "How's Marlene doing these days? I've heard her cooking's gotten remarkably better since my last visit." O'Dimm curled a finger around Ciri's hair and tucked it back behind her ear.

"Don't, touch her!" snarled Geralt, trying to stand. His legs suddenly feeling as if they had grown root, anchoring him in place.

"Ah, ah, ah," O'Dimm tutted, waggling a finger at the witcher, scolding him as if he were a small child. "I just want to talk. There's no need for hostility."

"What do you want?" Geralt ground out between clenched teeth.

"Oh, Geralt. You know it's never about what I want." O'Dimm crouched in front of the witcher, his shaven head cocked to one side. "All this has been for you."

The witcher grinned bitterly. "What are you proposing?"

"Only to set things right." Surprisingly enough, the magpie had swooped in on their conversation landing on the Man of Glass' shoulder.

"Meaning what exactly? I won't be playing word games with you." Geralt spoke slowly, still eyeing the bird and pondering how it remained unaffected by O'Dimm's magic.

It had hopped from O'Dimm's shoulder and was now perched on his crooked arm, its black claws sinking into the Man of Glass' stiff yellow tunic. "Where is your trust? Surely by now you know I keep to my word."

"Unfortunately, I also know you keep it to the letter."

"Very well." The Man of Glass chuckled, amused by Geralt's open distrust. "I will help get you, and your charge, out of this predicament. I'll even make it so that these fools don't see their plans come to fruition." With a cruel grin, the magpie on O'Dimm's arm spasmed its head, lurching up at an awkward angle as its feathers fell out in large clumps. Its flesh shriveled in on itself and it let out one last rattling croak.

Geralt watched the bird's skeleton fall, his focus turning back to the Man of Glass as its bones scattered on the impact. "This won't be for free I assume."

"Naturally." O'Dimm affirmed.

"So, what _is_ the price for this help?"

"Straight to the point as always… You see Geralt, you have something that should have been mine. Something that I ask of you now."

Geralt stiffened. He knew what O'Dimm wanted. It was the same thing the witcher had bargained to save Olgierd's: _His soul_. The offer was tempting, but then so were all of O'Dimm's deals, and each ended horribly for the wisher. "No."

"No? Geralt do you even know what you are saying no to?"

"I have some inkling, but I'll take my chances; without your help."

O'Dimm frowned. "Just remember Geralt, everything that happens now, _could_ have been avoided." The Man of Glass snapped his fingers and vanished, his mocking tone disappearing on the returning breeze.

The world regained its pace, but everything somehow appeared to move in slow motion. Every new detail etching itself into Geralt's mind.

Each step of Ciri's boots that pulled her closer. Each movement of the elves around them as they tried to separate the pair. Her small hand reaching for his. The snap of a taut bowstring. The splash of red flecking his face. The shock twisting her soft features, and the crimson tipped arrow protruding from her throat.

Every. Single. Detail.

"You… can't." Ciri whispered past the blood filling her mouth. "You…" Her body slumped into his, her ashen hair catching in his fingers.

_Ciri?!_

Geralt felt for a pulse, a breath, anything to prove she was still alive.

 _No_ . _No!_

A primal roar tore from his throat. Pain, rage, grief… sorrow. Feelings a witcher should never have flooded him. They consumed him. Blinded him. _Were they even his, or were they Cregennan's?_

After laying Ciri down gently, as if she was merely asleep, he rose.

The witcher turned on the closest elf, Iris drawn from its sheath faster than any could hope to react. The surprise was evident on the elf's face as a red line drew up his front, before the elf toppled over.

An arrow struck Geralt's shoulder, but he ignored it.

He spun on the next, his attacker's head hitting the ground as it was severed from its body.

Geralt roared.

His body grew dotted with arrows, each meant to slow him down – to immobilize, not to kill. Not that it mattered: he couldn't feel anything. _Not anymore_. To the trees he threw his grapeshot bombs, leftover from his scavenging at Kaer Morhen. A few elves dropped dead from their perches, their slender bodies torn to shreds by the bombs' shrapnel.

Skj'aera raised his staff, stamping the ground with its end. The ground quivered, but Geralt was faster. He threw the dimeritium bomb, its deadening power halting the spell. The witcher never gave the elven mage time to retaliate. In a quick stroke, his enchanted sabre cleft Skj'aera's hand, the elf's staff tumbling away with a clatter. Geralt twisted, no movement wasted as his sabre drew a bloody crescent across the skin on the elven mage's chest.

Another elf was rapidly approaching. He kicked Skj'aera away to avoid a deadly blow, the dagger instead tracing the scar across his left eye. The witcher let loose a growl and turned on the attacker, knocking away the elf's blade and running the elf through in a smooth motion.

Dragging himself across the ground, Skj'aera vainly attempted to retrieve his staff, but the witcher wouldn't have it. The witcher tossed his final bomb, the Northern Wind, and as it detonated as it impacted the earth. Icy tendrils snaked across the grass, freezing everything they touched, including Skj'aera's legs. The witcher stood above the elven mage and brought down his steel blade, shattering the frozen flesh.

The elven mage's screams fell on deaf ears; none of the others remained to hear them. Skj'aera flipped onto his back, staring up at the witcher towering above him. "Monster," he hissed. "Do you know what you cost us?"

The witcher wasn't calm enough to offer a coherent reply. His blade whistled down through the air, finally finding purchase in Skj'aera's skull.

There was no one left to challenge him.

Geralt felt his fury fade, leaving nothing behind but emptiness as he surveyed his work. With a sickening slorping sound, the witcher pulled out the sabre, and wiped its flat along the elf's grey cloak.

Ahead of him, the portal waited, its gaping maw just waiting for the witcher to activate it. He moved to the altar without thinking, as if it were drawing him in.

"Cregennan, how do I use this?" Geralt's hands curled around the rough edges of the wooden slab, his head bowed above the intricate carving on its surface.

The mage offered no answer.

"Cregennan…" His voice came out as a low growl, a warning.

" _We should destroy it._ "

The witcher snarled, slamming his palms down on the ancient wood. "Cregennan! How do I use this?"

" _It's too late Witcher. She's gone. Go. Tend to your wounds._ "

"You said this _thing_ can go back in time." He gritted his teeth, trying to remain calm. "I can still save her."

" _Or you could watch her die again. Sometimes the dead are bound to their fate..._ "

The thought of Ciri lying behind him haunted his vision. "Then I will sever that fate."

" _Is this what you truly wish for?_ "

"Would I ask otherwise?"

" _No. If it's what you seek, then I cannot stop you. You have the right to at least try._ "

"What do I have to do?"

" _Place your hand on its center and repeat after me. After that, the gate will bring us to where you need to be._ "

****

Geralt rolled with the fall, the harsh sheet of dried earth coming up quickly to meet the pair. The portal spluttered closed behind him, the last of its energy spent. He stood slowly, his dark eyes surveying the parched land. "Where are we?"

" _I don-_ " Cregennan started, but as Geralt continued searching something clicked. " _At the Beginning of Everything… this… this shouldn't be possible._ "

"Why?"

" _The gate shouldn't have had the power to go back this far. There shouldn't have been any need…_ " Cregennan's voice seemed awestruck.

The witcher stayed silent, his own curiosity peaked.

" _Best to stay alert Witcher. Ancient things wander here._ "

Geralt didn't have to be told twice. Everything seemed wrong, like he shouldn't be there. Hulking shapes drifted in and out of the line of the horizon, but never drew closer.

"Ancient? O'Dimm. Could I summon that bastard even here?"

" _O'Dimm?_ " The mage paused, and it felt remotely like he was shifting through Geralt's memories. _"I... I do not know… would it even be wise?_ "

The witcher's lip turned to a half-sneer. "Only one way to find out."

If they were drawn here, then it was for a reason.

****

Drawing in the dust proved harder than Geralt had anticipated, especially when he was drawing the pentagram with his own blood. The earth drank every drop greedily, fading the painted lines severely.

Geralt grimaced, retracing the lines he had laid out. He felt weak, as if just the act of drawing the circle was draining him. Knowing what he was doing, it probably was. He finished and hoped that it was close enough to the markings he once saw second hand.

He didn't have white candles, but he figured that the white fletching along the arrowhead protruding from his body counted. With a few pained grunts he broke the shafts, pushing the broken arrows into the star's five points touching the circle.

The witcher knelt in the pentagram's center, careful to not disturb his work. He hesitated, before casting Igni, giving silent thanks that he had enough stamina to at least light the five substitute candles.

A cold laugh traveled across the land, joined by distant whispers.

The wind picked up and Geralt was forced to close his eyes. When he opened them again, Gaunter O'Dimm was standing before him.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" He mocked, eyeing the kneeling witcher. "Did things not turn out as you intended?"

This time the witcher was allowed to stand. "You know why you're here O'Dimm."

"Do I Geralt? You rejected my last proposal."

"I want to discuss the terms. You didn't give me the opportunity earlier."

"Discuss? Geralt, you sound as if you have room to bargain."

"I do."

"Oh, do pray tell."

The witcher had succeeded in catching the Man of Glass' interest. It was another matter to keep it. "Our last bet didn't end well for you. I would wager you'd like the chance to redeem yourself."

"'Redeem myself?' That takes some gall." The Man of Glass had begun pacing around the witcher, disappearing and reappearing every so often in Geralt's peripheral. "I'd be lying if I said I weren't surprised by the previous outcome..." Tapping his chin thoughtfully, O'Dimm conceded. "Very well, what do you have in mind?"

"A game. Same as last time. I win; you set things right as you mentioned earlier."

"But if I win?"

"You get what you wanted: a soul, one that comes willingly."

"Oh, I severely doubt it would come willingly..." O'Dimm's pacing stopped and he was once again in front of the witcher. "As to the game… hide-and-seek again? No, you won that far too easily. If the main goal of this _game_ is to defend my honor, then I shall do so like a gentleman. A duel, surely your time in Toussaint has familiarized yourself with the custom."

Geralt nodded. It wouldn't be the first duel he's had, but he couldn't let his guard down. "What are your terms?"

"Winner takes first blood, granted it would seem I've won that already."

A searing heat traveled along Geralt's spine, and he grunted from the pain. A fleeting panic struck him as the feeling spread, traveling down his nerve endings and into his wounds, exaggerating the pain that was already there. The witcher curled in on himself, his fingers twitching as the arrowheads imbedded into his back squirmed their way out of his flesh.

"There." O'Dimm announced when the ache finally ebbed away.

Geralt moved ran his fingers over where his wounds had been, finding even his armor had been repaired. "Thanks..." He might have been healed, but he was still skeptical of O'Dimm's actions.

As if the Man of Glass sensed the witcher's doubt, he continued. "I would get little enjoyment from of our game if I won against someone who was half-dead." He drew the dagger that was sheathed at his side.

The witcher in turn drew his silver sword.

"You wound me Geralt," O'Dimm teased, the Man of Glass taking note of Aerondight's glowing silver blade. "Silver?"

"It would be a mistake to think you as a man."

O'Dimm toyed with his dagger, its edge growing to the length of a longsword. His dark eyes drew back up to the witcher's. "Fair enough. I guess it doesn't really matter which one you use..." He sounded bored, but the ominous smile told Geralt otherwise. As soon as the words left O'Dimm's mouth, the Man of Glass was upon the witcher.

The distance between them was closed in mere moments. Geralt brought up his blade and blocked the initial strike, the clang of metal on metal echoing far across the empty landscape.

Steel sang as the pair exchanged blow after blow, Aerondight's light the only vibrant color against the dull backdrop.

The witcher ducked under one swing, returning a swipe to where O'Dimm's midriff had been an instant earlier.

At another, he rolled out of the way of, only to leap back towards the Man of Glass.

Their swords met in a tangle, their hilts knocking together. A moment passed as they pushed against each other, neither side backing down. A twist of a wrist and the pair broke apart.

****

Geralt was panting heavily, but forced himself to not let it show. He couldn't appear weak now.

"It's about time we end this, don't you think?"

Geralt raised his sword defensively, ready for anything the Man of Glass could throw at him. _Almost_ ready for anything.

As O'Dimm continued to circle the witcher, Geralt swore he saw double, triple, quadruple. Four identical clones surrounded him.

"How is this still a duel?" Asked the witcher, his eyes darting between each of the doppelgangers.

"Oh, it very much still is. This is a fight between you and me. No one else has joined us," the clones said in complete sync.

The O'Dimm's converged, a sea of blades stabbing towards the witcher. There was nowhere to go. He blocked the first, dodged the second and head-butted the third. It was the fourth's sword that finally drew blood.

Everything seemed to freeze as both parties watched the small bead of red soak into the ground.

The gleam in the Man of Glass' eyes grew as the doppelgangers vanished one by one. Geralt's body locked up, he couldn't avoid what was about to happen.

 _He had failed_.

O'Dimm drew closer, and Geralt felt nauseous at the feeling of worms crawling under his flesh, feeding off of him.

His wrist burned like a hot brand, the symbols glowing white hot as O'Dimm's magic separated the two souls inhabiting the witcher's body.

Cregennan's voice was just barely a whisper now, and Geralt wasn't sure how much of him still remained. " _I'm sorry for everything_ ," and then the feeling stopped. The brand was gone.

The Man of Glass looked momentarily puzzled as Geralt stood seemingly intact, then he started laughing.

"Hahahahaha. A _willing_ soul indeed. I must admit I did not see that coming."

Neither had Geralt, but that may have been why the deception worked so well.

As O'Dimm was distracted, the witcher seized his opportunity. His sword sliced the Man of Glass' eye, leaving a bloody socket where the eye once was.

For a long while, nothing happened. Then Gaunter O'Dimm gave a strained smiled, his eye healing almost instantly. "We _will_ be seeing each other to finally settle this." The Man of Glass' tone was one less pleased.

The witcher frowned, biting back the harsh words that came to mind.

O'Dimm vanished amid a sudden snarling gust, leaving behind a small golden ball - one that had caused the witcher so much grief.

He plucked it from where it fell in the dust, and turned it over, noticing that his wolf-head medallion remained still. Cregennan was gone.

_Now he was truly alone._

****

There was nothing. Nothing but the dust that crawled in waves along the cracked earth, blown about by the same bitter wind that stung his sweat-soaked skin.

Not even the sky had been spared of the grey monotony. The sky was choked with it, remaining a twilight haze no matter which direction he looked, or for how long he walked.

****

His legs carried him autonomously through the dreary landscape, and Geralt drew shaky fingers to his cracked lips and blew. The whistle echoed emptily, and he let out a tired laugh. _What was he thinking? There was no way Roach would hear that, or even could._

A small part of him still hoped. Yet, that small part was crushed when nothing happened.

On he walked through the bleak scenery.

****

Geralt's body ached. His feet screamed at him to stop, each step more excruciating than the last. And, despite all of his body's mortal complaints, he pushed himself further. _There had to be something out here._

His lips had long grown dry, but the murky water he encountered was nothing but salt and mud. Geralt removed his armor to try and filter the liquid through the leather and heavy fabric, but it remained undrinkable despite his best efforts.

He was too weary to be frustrated, and instead, he moved on, leaving his witcher gear to be claimed by the dust.

****

He stumbled, his boots catching on an unseen rock, and he fell. The ground remained unsympathetic as his arms took on the full brunt of the impact.

Geralt lay there, feeling pinned to the ground by the once-comforting weight of his blades. He felt choked, suffocated.

Struggling with his baldric, he eventually undid its buckles flinging both it and his swords away. He couldn't even register the clatter as the dust greedily consumed the discarded metal.

 _Why did he bother trying? What did he hope to find in this nothingness?_ These thoughts began plaguing his mind. Unrelenting. Ceaselessly they continued. Their weight dragging down on him more so than his swords ever did, each footfall feeling heavier than the last.

Geralt wanted to stop, _what was the use anymore?_ Everything looked the same. The same lifeless, inhospitable plain. He would die here. Unknown and unfound.

He thought of Yen. He thought of… _Ciri_. _She wouldn't have wanted him to go like this_.

On faltering legs he rose, only to fall once more to the dried earth. He tried again, just barely managing to force his legs beneath him.

 _Move_ , he commanded his failing body. Each footfall felt like lead. _Move_. Each step, each sign of progress, quickly erased in the stinging wind. _Move._

****

Finally, Geralt stopped. He could go no further. His exhausted legs couldn't hold him anymore and he collapsed to his knees.

The wind howled its victory, whipping grit and loose grey hairs about his face.

Listlessly, his golden eyes stared out over the horizon once more before his tired body careened to the side. His head hit the ground unhindered.

Geralt lay unmoving, the dust slowly covering him. Inch by inch, it erased his presence from the desolate wasteland.

In the distance, hulking shapes moved in and out of the horizon's line, never drawing any nearer.


	18. At the End of the Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, why you so hard to write dialogue for?

" _You know where to find me,_ " Geralt's voice echoed in her head. Ciri absently played with the silver amulet around her neck, eyeing the beady-eyed noble she had the displeasure of dealing with now.

"Your majesty?" The noble awaited a response, giving a polite cough into a fist. He shifted in the wooden chair, its seat a little too small for the man's girth. Intentionally of course. It always made her visitors uncomfortable and less likely to extend meetings.

"Yes, I see your point, however…" The amulet's chain rattled against her neck. A tingle ran through her body as she caught the faint vision. The barest whisper of an image. Nothing but dust and exhaustion assaulted her senses when she tried to focus on it. It filled her with dread.

"Your Majesty?" The noble inquired again, adjusting the billowing beige scarf tucked into the front of his crisp white shirt.

Ciri cleared her throat, erasing the signs of concern from her face. A knock on the door drew the attentions of both the young empress and the noble she was seeing. One of the palace runners peeked inside. "I don't mean to intrude, your Imperial Majesty, but the Lady Yennefer has asked to see you. She says it is quite urgent." The young empress nodded her acknowledgement and the messenger retreated from the room to resume his other duties.

A practiced smile spread slowly on Ciri's face as she stood. "It's unfortunate, but it looks like I am needed elsewhere. We will need to continue this another time, Lord…" She paused as she tried desperately to recall the man's name.

"… Cedrick, your Majesty," offered the noble. "I'm sure the Lady could wait a few more…"

"I'm afraid not, Lord Cedrick. We will convene some other time. For now, it appears I have urgent matters to attend." She stepped past the gaping noble and out through the door, just barely managing to contain her urgency, the shaking chain a persistent reminder. Ciri stilled it in her hand and ran down the hall towards Yennefer's tower.

****

"Ciri, slow down! What's wrong?" Yennefer asked as Ciri nearly flew past her.

Ciri's lip trembled as she released her tight grip on the amulet, letting it swing free.

The sorceress watched it with wide violet eyes as it lay quivering upon Ciri's chest. Without a word, Yennefer grabbed Ciri's slender wrist and pulled her with quick steps through the door to her tower.

"When did it start?"

****

Ciri didn't know what to expect when she appeared on the desolate plain.

The bitter wind tugged at her clothes and hair and she had to squint to see anything past the dust that blew across the landscape. Monstrous warped shapes lumbered across the horizon line, but never seemed to get any closer. She hugged herself, trying to rub some warmth into her arms. She wouldn't say it was cold, more that the landscape seemed to suck to the very heat from her marrow.

_What was Geralt doing in this place?_ Everywhere she looked it was the same. An endless grey sky and more dried earth. It felt eerie. _Wrong_.

_Where are you Geralt?_ She picked a direction, hoping that it was the right one.

****

Shadowed fingers dogged her heels, slowing each step... trying to convince her to stop.

"You'll never find him. Never." The shadows whispered as they pried into her doubts. "Give up... give up... leave him…"

For now, it was fine. She could still tune out the voices, but she feared what would happen if she started to forget that they were there, that they weren't her own thoughts.

****

_Perhaps she was wrong? Perhaps he wasn't even here? Maybe she should stop searching?_ She scanned the area again, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. _Hoping_.

"Geralt!" Ciri shouted again, desperate for anything to give her a reason to keep looking. "Geralt!?"

A mound shifted in the dust, the fine grains sifting off the revealed wind-burned torso.

At first Ciri approached the form slowly, but as she recognized his white hair and the familiar scar marking the left side of his face, she found herself running.

Kneeling beside him, she repeated. "Geralt?" Carefully, Ciri turned him onto his back so that his face was no longer resting against the earth. "What happened?"

His eyes opened a crack, the golden cat-like eyes peering up at her in confusion. "Ciri?" Geralt weakly raised his hand, trying to reach the side of her face.

She offered him a small smile, though its sincerity was tinged with concern over the state she had found the witcher in. "Yes, Geralt."

"I'm sorry I let you down. I…" He winced as each word caused his throat noticeable pain.

"No. No." She insisted, confused by his words. "You've always been there."

His expression was unreadable, but there was hurt in his eyes. Geralt's hand fell away and she quickly checked for breath when his eyes closed shortly afterward.

Ciri let out a relieved sigh as she watched his chest rise and fall, but the feeling was short-lived. She had to get him help. Who knew how long he had been out here?

She held him close and teleported the both of them back to the Nilfgaardian palace.

* * *

"He's dehydrated and has suffered from mild exposure, but nothing some rest shan't cure."

Geralt didn't recognize the male's voice, but he did recognize the second.

"Thank-you. I'll send for you if something else comes up."

"As you wish, Lady Yennefer."

So he wasn't dead, _but Ciri? Had she been real?_

The shuffling of tight formal clothes indicated a curt bow, followed closely by the soft sound of a door opening and closing. The man's aroma of chemicals and herbs lingered for a moment until a gentle breeze pulled it from the room.

The mattress dipped and he opened bleary eyes to the expanse of a large white canopy stretched above him. A sudden splayed hand on his chest kept him from sitting up.

"The doctor said you need rest."

Despite the increasing pressure from Yennefer's hand against his chest, Geralt rose. "I'll rest when I'm dead."

A sigh. "I'd prefer it if you didn't end up that way."

He rubbed a tired hand down his face, his thoughts scrambling to figure out what happened. "Where's Ciri?" was the most he could make out, his hand covering where Yennefer's was against his chest.

Yennefer's face turned sullen, and Geralt's heart clenched in response. Whether it was his expression or his hand closing around hers, the raven-haired sorceress offered him a weak smile. "It... it might be best for you not to see her right now. Wait until you've recovered your strength."

His hand tightened, and he only realized by how much when Yennefer winced. Releasing his grip, the witcher let his hand fall to his side. "Sorry."

Her demeanor softened. "If nothing else, give Ciri some time to calm down." She grabbed his hand and gave it a small squeeze. "You can see her later; it's not as if she's going anywhere soon."

The implied news shocked him. "Then she's...?"

"Ciri's fine. A little rattled after bringing you back, but fine. It's you we're worried about…" This time her smile was much more genuine. "So much for you not wanting her to worry about some _old_ witcher."

Relief hit him like a wave, knocking Geralt back into the downy pillow. He couldn't help cracking a smile. "You're going to use that against me?"

"Of course." Yennefer rose, the bed rebounding with the loss of her weight on its edge. "There's water on the nightstand should you feel thirsty."

Geralt watched her leave. Watched how her hips swayed from side-to-side with her steps, no doubt exaggerated as the sorceress knew he was watching.

"Get some rest," she chuckled, before disappearing behind the wooden door.

He lay quietly for a moment then reached out for the silver pitcher and goblet set out for him.

****

The witcher was antsy. More frequently, he found himself pacing outside Yennefer's tower door, much to the chagrin of the Chamberlin at Geralt's continued presence.

Three days later, he found himself once more outside of the door separating the sorceress' tower from the rest of the palace. The golden ball he carried around burning a proverbial hole in his pocket.

Hesitantly, the witcher knocked on the door, fiddling for the umpteenth time with the tight collar of the black velvet shirt he had been provided.

_Would Yen even hear him knocking?_

He tried again, not quite wanting to gain the sorceress' ire from potentially disrupting whatever she was working on.

The door creaked open. "It was unlocked you know." Yennefer stood, posed against the door frame a hand resting against her hip.

"Didn't want to interrupt anything."

"Well aren't you the gentleman," she said coyly. "But had there been anything to interrupt, the door would have been locked."

"I'll keep that in mind." He let out a puff of air. "Hrm," started the witcher unsure of how to broach the subject of the golden orb.

The sorceress straightened, adopting a more serious air. "You've been dying to ask me about that thing in your pocket, let me see it." She held out her hand, no doubt waiting for Geralt to give her the metal device.

"Was it that obvious?" asked Geralt as he placed the orb into her palm.

"Hmm. Not at first..." Her main attention flicked to the golden ball she ushered the witcher to follow her into the upper levels of the tower.

****

Sconces secured firmly to the walls, burned brightly, illuminating the areas that the light from the single window did not reach. Pages rustled as Yennefer flipped through old tomes. Periodically, she would snap the book closed with a frown and pull another from the many bookshelves that lined her space.

He could tell her what it was, but she'd only want to confirm the information herself. So Geralt was content to wait, leaned up against the tower's stone wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Her expression grew from partially to fully baffled. Eventually, the page turning stopped. The raven-haired sorceress placed the golden ball on a rounded table. "I still don't know where you would have found this. It's a-"

"Saov Llestr. I know. Does it still..." The witcher wiggled his fingers.

The corner of the raven-haired sorceress' lip pulled, but that was all she showed of her opinion on Geralt's interruption. "No. It's quite broken." She sighed, a sign of clear disappointment towards the artifact's present condition. "I thought your medallion would have indicated as much?"

"Just wanted a second opinion." Geralt frowned, lost in thought. He didn't know what to feel. Relief mainly, but he couldn't help feeling guilty. He was free, but Cregennan had paid the price.

"Was that all you wanted to see me about?" There was a hopeful lit to her voice, though her face remained nonchalant.

His shirt's collar seemed to tighten around his trachea, and he swallowed. "I..." Geralt knew what she was asking. It was the same question she asked before. _Was he going to stay?_ He had seemed so sure of his answer before, but now, after all that had happened?

He peeled himself away from the wall. "I still need to think about it."

"She misses you."

"Yen…"

"Would it be too much to ask you to stay? For Ciri?" _For me?_ The words remained unspoken, but Geralt's mind supplied them for Yennefer all the same.

"I'm a witcher Yen. Nothing can change that." _Not even turning human_. "My place is on the Path."

Geralt could sense her disappointment. "I know," she sighed.

The witcher rubbed the back of his head. "Nothing's stopping me from wintering here, though your Chamberlin might have a fit."

Yennefer was puzzled at first, but she smiled at the implications. "Oh, I'm sure something could be worked out," she purred, closing the space between them.

"Yeah?" a similar smirk already forming on his lips.

"Of course, though you will need a more extensive wardrobe while you're here."

"Mmm. I bet you would have some ideas about that." He murmured against her neck, kissing her throat gently.

The sorceress arched into the kisses, her hands entwining in his white locks. "You always did look better in black velvet."

"Personally, I think I could look better without." Geralt said, his meaning not going unnoticed as the sorceresses eyes lit up.

"I'll be the judge of that..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it folks. Story's over. I have to give big thanks to everyone who followed this to the end, whether you left kudos, comments, or were just curious and managed to read this far. You guys are awesome!!!
> 
> Alrighty so I got a question over on fanfiction and I realize a few people might want a more definite answer to how the time travel thing works...  
> So to recap the question left:
> 
> _So...the amulet detects Geralt at death's door between time and space, and after travelling back in time (i think that is what happened?) Ciri detected it and brought him back with the broken sphere. Buuuut he was only there cause he was dying in the present time with that sphere thingy and cregennan. So if that never happened then he would never end up there. So…he is gonna run into himself?_
> 
> First I'd like to mention that in an earlier chapter, Cregennan pointed out that his soul puts the time traveler outside of the time continuum, meaning that even if Geralt undoes something that caused him to go back in time, there'd still be an instance of himself that went back in time (if that makes any sense)...
> 
> Currently I can think of two possibilities for what happened to Geralt in the present, pick the one you like best:
> 
> 1\. The amulet prioritizes the "distress signal" to the earliest time. That means that the Geralt that traveled back in time would be the earliest instance that Geralt was in trouble. This then means that the Geralt in the current age would be slowly bleeding out due to his injuries caused by Cregennan, killing him and setting Cregennan free. The result would still stop Skj'eara from trying to complete his plan.
> 
> 2\. The less grim possibility is that the "isolation" from the time continuum makes it so that when Geralt travels to the same time period where he exists only one instance appears. Thus the "past" Geralt combines with the "present" Geralt once he returned to the current age. As for Cregennan, remember that O'Dimm exists outside time, thus Cregennan is permanently taken by O'Dimm such that he would no longer exist in the current period.


End file.
